


In Noctem

by windwrites



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dark, Dark Harry, M/M, Secret Identity, Slash, Vampires, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-11
Updated: 2013-11-14
Packaged: 2017-11-07 12:10:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 21
Words: 128,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/431039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windwrites/pseuds/windwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his parents' deaths in 1927, Hadrian Peverell is adopted and taught the art of politics. Years later, as war looms on the horizon and his very identity becomes his greatest secret, Hadrian has no choice but to trust someone almost as dangerous as he himself: Tom Riddle. </p><p>A story of love and loss. A story of power, and of one too great to seek it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mother Mine

**Mother Mine**

.

~.~

.

" _Under all speech that is good for anything there lies a silence that is better. Silence is deep as Eternity; speech is as shallow as Time."_

-Thomas Carlyl

.

~.~

.

_Prelude_

In the dead of night, the little town of Cobham was asleep. Torrents of cold rain beat a steady tattoo on metal rooftops, and the creaking of the buildings was lost amidst the din of the storm. Puddles coalesced into shallow streams, gushing down neglected and dirty streets. The few trees along the street groaned as harsh winds tore relentlessly at their branches and rustled their leaves, and their inky silhouettes swayed where they stood, dancing to the sinister tune that constituted the storm. Churning grey clouds obscured stars which might otherwise have illuminated the darkness, and the dark was indeed so profound that no average person would find themselves capable of distinguishing their hand in front of their face.

Such was the nature of the night when Anastasia Peverell materialized within the shadow of an especially large maple tree. In her pale arms was clutched a child, young and swaddled in a soft green blanket. Too fast for a human, she darted across the street and through the wrought iron gate to a decrepit, somber looking building. A sign on the gate proclaimed the structure to be Bennett's Orphanage, and it was here that the woman began to cry, shining tears leaking from her glowing green eyes.

It was here that her child would live, now. This drab, wretched place of sorrow and gloom. The thought of her baby's future sent a fresh wave of tears rolling down Ana's cheeks, and she didn't even attempt to wipe them away as they mixed with the rain on her skin and in her auburn hair.

For as she drew her drew her wand and cast a water-repellent charm on her son's blanket, she knew she would not be returning. Even as she tucked a bit of parchment bearing his name into the folds of the soft cloth, her husband was fighting off the Dark Lord Grindelwald. He had given her time, she knew, but not much. 'Run, Ana! Take Hadrian and leave! I'll hold him off!' her husband's voice rang out in her mind. And she had. Because in spite of all they'd done to hide, the aliases they'd been using for nearly a _century_ , they had been hunted down at last.

By the Dark Lord Grindelwald, no less! After all this time, it was he that would spell their downfall. He had, no doubt, heard rumours of Ana's pregnancy, and with her husband and her being what they were, he had wanted the child. Of course he had. For though the Dark Lord knew not their true names, he knew their nature. And so he had hunted them down, demanding that they swear their allegiance and their son's.

But as wise as the Peverells were, Ana and Cassius were still parents. And they would sooner die than subject their precious son to a life of servitude.

Now, they would do just that.

Ana knelt, Hadrian clasped tight in her arms, and pressed a kiss to his forehead. Her son looked up at her with eyes so like her own, and she mourned the fact that he would never know her, that _she would never know him._

"I love you, Hadrian. Mummy loves you, daddy loves you," she choked back a sob. Drawing in a shuddering breath, she continued on. She didn't have much time.

"Be strong, my son." she breathed, "Be strong, be Dark, be _great_." even as she said it, she knew that he _would_ be. He would be greater than any that came before him, and perhaps any to come after.

With trembling hands, she placed him gently on the dusty doorstep. Taking one last look at her infant son, so beautiful and so innocent, she stepped into the deep, tenebrous shadows of the orphanage. She would return to her husband, and together they would face the Dark Lord. They _were_ Peverells after all, and would most definitely not go quietly.

.

~.~

.

_Chapter One_

Mrs. Miller was the sole warden of the small Bennett's Orphanage in the outskirts of London. From the street outside, the building looked to be nearly falling apart. Bennet's was an old, somewhat dilapidated establishment with too many windows and not enough blankets, a small dwelling with no grounds to be had save for the small plot of land which accommodated a bomb shelter out back. Mrs. Miller worked as hard as her seventy-four year old knees would let her to keep the operation in working order. She repaired what damages she could, and attempted to ensure that the home didn't fall into a further state of disrepair, but as the years wore on, the building went to rack and ruin. Of course, the children residing in Bennett's didn't help that matter much, what with their constant clambering up and down the rickety stairs and crashing into the worn walls.

In her younger years, Mrs. Miller had loved children. Unable to bear her own progeny, she had dedicated her life to the looking after of the orphans of Bennett's. She had been thirty-three then, and had since come to the bitter realisation that perhaps raising children was best left to the young and able, though she would never dream of voicing the thought aloud. Now, in her old age, Mrs. Miller was _tired_. Her joints ached, her vision was blurry, and in the winter, her bones never seemed to warm entirely. But Mrs. Miller was nothing if not determined, and with scant funding from the government (due to the impending war, no doubt) and no one else to help her, she would raise Bennet's orphans well if it was the last thing she did.

Notwithstanding her senescence, Mrs. Miller was exceedingly dedicated to caring for her wards. She had no favourites, and treated them all equally; even the delinquents among her orphans weren't judged under Mrs. Miller's roof. After all, many of the children had formerly lived on their own on the streets, and thus a bit of disorderly conduct was to be expected. Besides, _goodness lived inside every child_ , Mrs. Miller liked to think.

Why, just last month she had received a new charge, Cristina Peterson. Cristina had been delivered to Bennett's by a local constable, caught red-handed stealing apples from a market. A darling little girl she had turned out to be, though Mrs. Miller was always careful to watch her handbag when Cristina was in her office.

Robbie Holloway came from an even more questionable past than Cristina; after spending two years at Bennett's, he had been adopted (at the age of eight) by a nice couple only to return a week and a half later when the family's home went up in flames under mysterious circumstances. Six years later, Robbie was still at Bennett's, where he would no doubt remain until he came of age. Teenagers were seldom adopted.

Mrs. Miller saw many interesting children pass through her walls. Some stayed only days, while others had been domiciled in the orphanage since infancy. With a fond smile, Mrs. Miller remembered the first child she had raised herself. When she had first started at the orphanage, she had been an assistant to the one of the original owners, the dowager Mrs. Bennett. Mrs. Bennett's late husband had passed away only a year previously, leaving the old woman alone with the orphans. Around the turn of the century, shortly after Mrs. Miller had come to Bennett's, a little girl had been brought to the orphanage by a government worker. Four months old, little Lizzie was the only child of a deceased couple with no known relations. That was when Mrs. Miller had first became a mother. She had raised the girl as her own, and when the time came when little Lizzie was adopted, the matron had cried herself to sleep for nearly a month.

Now, so many years later, Mrs. Miller wasn't nearly as attached to her orphans. She cared for them, yes, but she didn't mother them. Even when they were as young as Lizzie had been, Mrs. Miller looked after them as was necessary but not enough to think of them as her own. Such was the case with the boy who had arrived at the orphanage just six years ago. A mere infant at the time, the child was left on the doorstep during the night of All Hallows Eve with no more possessions than the green blanket he was wrapped in and a strange bracelet about his left wrist, and no more explanation than a note relaying his name.

Hadrian Peverell. Such a grand name for such a small child, though judging by the quality of the blanket in which he had been swaddled and the bit of jewellery he'd been adorned with, he must have come from a family of great wealth. In those years, when times were tough and money was scarce, she had attempted to relieve the child of his bracelet, but try as she might, it wouldn't budge.

As he'd grown older, it had quickly become apparent that the Peverell boy wasn't like the other children. While the others would run about the orphanage and play with what few toys they possessed, he would sit quietly in his room (number fourteen), reading. Other children laughed and smiled and threw tantrums and screamed, but the Peverell boy was calm and composed, and as quiet as a mouse, innocuous if not for his eerie gaze.

Even his looks were distinctive; he was a lithe, elegant child, and moved with an eerie grace incongruous with children his age. His wavy hair was so black that it sometimes looked almost blue, and his skin as pale as his tresses were dark. The most startling detail of his aspect, however, was his eyes. It was his eyes more than anything else that made Mrs. Miller wary of him. Eyes so green they seemed to glow, eyes whose verdant irises bespoke thoughts and secrets his silence withheld. For years, Mrs. Miller had wondered whether the Peverell lad might be mute, or if perhaps he was not right in the head. Her doubts regarding his ability to speak had been put to rest on one afternoon outing when he was four years old, only to be replaced with an entirely different set of worries.

~.~

_With the cramped atmosphere of the orphanage, Mrs. Miller thought it prudent to see that the children received fresh air from time to time, and the neighbourhood park proved as good a place as any in the warmer and the colder months alike. The elderly warden preferred to sit on a low green park bench on the edge of the park while the orphaned children went about their playing, observing and watching for any trouble amongst her charges. It was from that very same vantage point that Mrs. Miller saw a group of five lads approach the quiet form of Hadrian Peverell over near the swings one summer afternoon two years ago._

_"Oi, Peverell!," called John Barnett. John was a tall, spindly, brown haired youth three years Peverell's senior. He and his friends enjoyed taunting the green-eyed boy, though (or perhaps because) he never retaliated. More than once, the Peverell child had been afforded broken limbs and bruises from their antics, yet still he never spoke._

_Peverell had been reading a book (as he was wont to do, even at the tender age of four), sitting cross-legged under one of the few scraggly maple trees which the park boasted. Hearing his name, the child lowered the thick tome in which his nose had hitherto been buried, and looked up at his tormentors._

_His face was the picture of insouciance, blank as he assessed the situation, though he inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement._

_"What've yeh got there?" John questioned mockingly. Peverell looked pointedly at his book, raising an eyebrow._

_"That ain't no children's book, is it?" queried another of the boys, Ernest, as he tilted his head in an attempt to see the title. "He can't read that, then, can he? He's got'a be pretendin'. No normal kid could read it," he continued, looking at his friends for confirmation._

_"Well, he ain't no normal kid, now, is he?" remarked a third child. Peverell's face remained impassive._

_"He's a freak!"declared the fourth, eliciting a round of laughter from the older boys._

_"Is that why yer parents left yeh, then? Because yer a freak?" jeered another, stepping closer to the seated child and giving him a rough kick. At this, Peverell's expression darkened, yet still he remained silent._

_"I bet it is," agreed John, "Not even 'is own mum wanted 'im," the boys guffawed at that, even as the Peverell child deposited his book on the ground and stood up to his full (though still markedly shorter than older boys) height._

_"Does it make yeh sad, Peverell, that even yer own parents couldn't stand yer freakiness?" taunted Ernest, while Peverell clenched his fists._

_"Look, Ern! I think yeh struck a nerve!" John sniggered at that._

_Then, so softly that Mrs. Miller questioned whether she had even heard I at all, came a reply._

_"Don't push me." murmured the boy with the emerald eyes, his voice soft from disuse, but smooth and lilting nonetheless._

_The older boys seemed shocked into silence, so astounded were they by the previously unheard voice of their victim. Had they glanced over to the bench where Mrs. Miller was sitting, they would've born witness to a similar gobsmacked expression upon her usually stern countenance._

_"Did he just...?"_

_"I think he did."_

_They continued to stare at the smaller boy until finally, John spoke up._

_"What're yeh gonna do to us, then, freak?" at this, the other boys seemed fall easily back into their familiar routine of harassment._

_"Are yeh gonna try an' scare us away with your freakiness, like you did yer mummy and daddy?" Ernest laughed, hitting Peverell's shoulder._

_"Sure worked well on 'em, didn't it? Abandoned yeh at a filthy little orphanage, they did." added John, shoving Peverell back into the tree._

_Suddenly, John was the one pushed up against the tree, his arm twisted behind his back and held imobile by Peverell. The motion had occurred so instantaneously that Mrs. Miller had missed it entirely, and judging from John's disbelieving expression, so had he._

_"I said," Peverell stood on his toes to whisper into John's ear, "don't push me." and as if to emphasise his previous statement, a sickening crack resounded throughout the park._

_Were it not for John's shriek of pain, Mrs. Miller would never have guessed that Peverell had been the cause of the 'crack', and as it was, she had a difficult time believing it herself even as John rushed to her, wailing about a broken arm. It was impossible, she told herself. No four year old could break an arm with only his bare hands. In the confusion, Peverell had disappeared, and was not missed until later, when he was seen climbing the stairs to his room, book in hand._

_That evening, after John's arm was on its way to mending and the orphans were fed, Mrs. Miller warily ventured up to room fourteen, the Peverell boy's room, belt in hand and intent upon punishing him for his act of violence._

_As she pushed open the door, the matron immediately noted the immaculate state of his small living quarters. His single pair of shoes sat by his wardrobe, exactly perpendicular to the wall, and blankets were neatly folded at the foot of his cot. Nothing was out of place at all. It was then that Mrs. Miller realised that she had never been in his room before. When he had grown old enough for his own room, she had never had a reason to check on him; Peverell was self-sufficient._

_The boy in question sat on his bed with his legs crossed and the book from earlier in his lap. He gazed at her with his unsettling green eyes, and suddenly she felt inadequate, like he had evaluated her and found her wanting. Berating herself for such foolish thoughts, Mrs. Miller steeled herself and spoke to him._

_"I know what you did to John Barnett, Hadrian." she started. His name tasted wrong in her mouth. He was Peverell to her. He had always been Peverell. "That wasn't very nice of you, young man, and I am afraid I will have to give you a beating for it." she stated firmly in spite of her anxiousness, and it was true: she was afraid._

_"With all due respect, Madame," his began, his velvety voice low and his speech patterns all wrong for a four year old, "I'm sure that your bones are more brittle than John Barnett's." with that, he smirked, and his eyes lit up as if in amusement. Her blood ran cold. It was true, she knew, and if this child, no, this freak could break the arm of a boy nearly twice his age as if he were snapping a twig, what else could he do?_

_"I would imagine that they are," she replied in a whisper, and with that she quit his room._

_~.~_

Since that day, Hadrian Peverell had been untouchable. The orphans were nearly as afraid of the Peverell boy as the warden was, and his every action went unquestioned. He sat out in the rain sometimes, for hours even, and would return inside positively drenched in ice-cold water, yet no one spoke a word. On one occasion multiple children swore the had seen him conversing with a _snake_ in the park, but no one dared ask after the event.

He had been adopted multiple times during his stay at Bennett's, of course, for how could he not be? He appeared on the surface to be everything a couple looking to adopt would want a child to be: polite, charming, beautiful, and practically radiating charisma, but (despite Mrs. Miller's prayers) none of the adoptions stuck. Peverell was always returned to the orphanage a few days later with the couple tight-lipped and refusing to speak of the boy.

And so it was that life at the orphanage carried on (more cautiously when in the vicinity of room fourteen) and the old warden continued to cook, clean, and take the children on outings. The park remained as much a constant in the lives of the inhabitants of Bennett's Orphanage as watered-down soup and moth-eaten blankets, and the hope that someday Hadrian Peverell would disappear.

Mrs. Miller didn't judge her orphans. No, the delinquents were free to come and go, the misfits and the desperate ones too. The warden welcomed them all with open arms, and looked after them as best she could. All but one. No, Peverell didn't need her welcoming or her looking after; he just needed her to refrain from asking questions. And that's what she did for her orphans: she did what they needed her to do.

So one blustery autumn afternoon when Peverell was six years old, Mrs. Miller took her orphans on an outing to the park. She observed them playing from her favourite low, green bench. She saw when little Cristina won a game of hide-and-seek, and she noticed when Ernest had an argument with John, and beyond the fence that divided the park from the street beyond, she observed a strange looking woman leading the Peverell boy away down an alley across the way. And Mrs. Miller did what the Peverell boy needed her to do: she refrained from asking questions.

.

~.~

.

_Perfect_ , she thought as she strolled casually along the small, yet bustling street. _Enough people that I don't stand out._ Because this was exactly the sort of environment she preferred for hunting, especially when her victims were muggles. Their eyes slid over her cascading, silver-blonde hair and scarlet robes easily, aided in their oblivious nature by the use of a simple 'notice-me-not' charm. No matter her desire to blend in, she would not lower herself to the use of hideous muggle attire.

Carina Valavicius observed her potential targets with calculating golden eyes, seeking an individual who's disappearance would not be dearly missed. _Who shall be lunch today?_ she wondered as she noticed a group of children playing in a nearby park. Children were always a favourite of Carina's, their blood nearly as clean as that of wizards. Alas, it appeared that today she would have to settle for an adult, as the children were all within the confines of a fence, and under the watchful eyes of some old woman seated across the park.

Then, Carina's gaze fell on a small, beautiful boy who was seated just _outside_ the fence. The child appeared to be young, probably five of six, and yet he was pouring over a thick volume clutched in his small fingers. So the child was intelligent, then. _I suppose the usual method won't work on him_ , the vampire mused as she fiddled with the muggle sweets concealed within a pocket in her robes. _No, I'll have to take him by force._

So lost in her scheming was she that even her heightened senses failed to detect the child's sudden movement. Abruptly, the child was standing immediately in front of her, appraising her with luminous emerald eyes, picking her apart despite the 'notice-me-not'.

"Who are you?" he asked, "You aren't like the others. You _feel_ different."

It was then that Carina realised that this boy _felt_ _different_ too. _Most definitely not a muggle child,_ she reflected. Now that she saw his face, his eyes, his _power,_ it was obvious that the child came from old blood. But even as she tentatively reached out with her magic, feeling his respond with too much vigour for any mudblood, she doubted that theory. His magic was too strong, too _dark_ for even a pureblood. Then, the thought occurred to her that he might be _born_. She glanced at his left wrist. There, shocking despite her suspicions, was a silver band, unique, yet easily recognisable as one of a born vampire. But who _was_ he?

Born vampires were extremely rare, only coming along every few centuries. This was due to the fact that a born vampire was needed to beget children at all, and even then, there was no rush. After all, when you live forever, why hurry?

But born vampires were _known_. All vampires made it a priority to know of the existence of born vampires. They were, after all, important. Born vampires were more powerful than turned vampires, inheriting their parent's vampiric powers as well as their own. As a _born_ herself, Carina Valavicius had access to sources that would alert her immediately upon the birth on one of her kind.

But who is this child with the glowing green eyes? And more importantly, where are his parents?

"I am Carina Valavicius." she stated, hoping for a reaction. None came. Even among wizards, her name was known, yet this child seemed unperturbed. "Who are you, child, and where are your parents?" she voiced her thoughts.

He seemed to appraise her before answering, "I am Hadrian Peverell, and my parents are dead, I think."

_Peverell_? The child was a _Peverell_? The Peverells were dead, yes, but _they had had a son?_ The implications of such a possibility were astronomical. The Peverells were an old pureblood line, the first turned centuries before wizarding Britain was even established, and the first _born_ Peverell born around the time of the Founders.

It was that vampire, Cassius Peverell, that would be this child's father, but (though old even for a vampire) the father wasn't what would make this Peverell child so special. No, the fact that would make this child more remarkable than even any born vampire could hope to be was the fact that his mother was Anastasia de Thaneto. While not more noteworthy than the average born vampire in and of herself, Anastasia's union with Cassius Peverell was the first union of two born vampires in history. That union would make this boy, this Hadrian Peverell, the first child of two born vampires ever to exist.

Carina hadn't known the Peverell couple well, but she had known of them. Anastasia and Cassius Peverell had been a stunning couple, both attractive even by the standards of vampires, and powerful in their own rights. Seeing them together, an apparently young man and woman of twenty or twenty-five, one would never have guessed that they had been together centuries.

Their deaths, by the hand of the rising Dark Lord Grindelwald, had been an insult to vampires of all sorts. With as few born vampires as there were, the murder of even one would have been disgraceful. But they had dug their own grave. Refusing to support the Dark Lord so blatantly, it was only a matter of time before stakes were plunged through their hearts, ending the Peverell line.

But it hadn't ended, had it? They had had a son. This child, who's magic was darker than any she had seen before, even before his Turning. Once he was bitten, and his vampiric magic was unleashed, he would most likely be as powerful as an adult _born_. And when he came to magical maturity and reached his Inheritance, he would be more powerful than anyone could imagine.

"Excuse me, madam, but are you alright?" the object of her thoughts startled Carina back into reality.

"Yes, I am alright, Hadrian. May I call you Hadrian?" she queried in return. He pursed his lips, and his brows furrowed in deliberation. The childlike expression was so endearing that Carina's lips twitched up into a smile.

"You may. And I shall call you Carina." he declared, and Carina couldn't help but laugh. She liked this child. Before, she had never thought of having her own children, but as she spoke with this bold little vampire, she wondered what motherhood would be like.

"Well then, Hadrian, would you like to come live with me, to be my son?" the silver-haired vampire smiled, and Hadrian's eyes widened in an incredulous expression.

"What? I don't know you. _You_ don't know _me_. Why in the _world_ would you want to _adopt_ me? You know nothing about me!"

"On the contrary, Hadrian. I know more about you than even _you_ know." his expression morphed into one of doubt, and Carina continued, "I know that you are different from the other children; you are smarter, less... _childish._ I know that you are stronger than them, faster, that you can make things happen that you can't explain." and then, judging by the wary looks the children sent his way and the fact that he was sitting by himself, Carina fathomed a guess, "I know that they fear you, Hadrian, and rightly so." At this, his eyebrows shot up and he moved slightly away from her.

"How do you know? Who are you?" he questioned her, a slightly panicked look in his eyes.

"I already told you, Hadrian. I am Carina Valavicius, and I am like you. I too am smarter, stronger, faster than the others." she leaned close to him, and spoke in a whisper, "I too am _powerful_." and with that, she knew she had him. He was curious, and would want answers.

And Carina knew that now, when she offered to adopt him, he would say yes, if only to sate his curiosity. That was how people worked, and after centuries of living as she did, she knew how to manipulate them. If her plans worked, Hadrian would too. How fortuitous was their meeting! She would Turn him, raise him, teach him the art influence and politics. She would hide him from Grindelwald, perhaps from the rest of the vampires as well, for if his true nature was known, he would be forced into the middle of the upcoming war.

"So, child, what do you say? Will you come with me, Hadrian?" unspoken was the promise of answers and explanation. She extended a hand in his direction.

He looked at her with a dubious countenance, but cautiously placed his smaller hand in hers.

"I will."

And with that, Carina guided him down a shady alleyway adjoining the street. Pulling him close, she stepped into a particularly dark shadow and disappeared.

  
  


  
  



	2. The Disgrace

**The Disgrace**

.

~.~

.

_"If knowledge is power, then to be unknown is to be unconquerable."_

-Star Trek: Birth of the Federation One

.

~.~

.

"Hadrian! Come downstairs!" his mother's call rang through the manor, and Hadrian quirked his lips at her antics. They had a house elf, and yet she still insisted on shouting to relay messages.

Hadrian stood in front of a full length mirror in his room, examining his reflection. Or rather, examining the reflection of the person he would be portraying for the next seven years, while he was at Hogwarts. He understood Carina's concern, shared it even, but this entire hidden identity plan seemed terribly complicated. Hadrian wore a glamour at all times when he was in public, but that was just to conceal his vampirism after he had been Turned. _This_ , well, this was something else entirely. _This_ was Julian Pearce. They had worked for months on his disguise, beginning plans for his appearance before they even moved back to England from France. They spent what felt like forever disguising his hair and his skin and his eyes and his figure until he was perfectly unremarkable and utterly _Julian_.

Turning his head, Hadrian brushed aside his hair and let his glamour fall enough to see the small black rune on the back of his neck. It was a small, innocuous little mark, but it was tied to both the appearance of his 'persona' and the spellwork masking his power. The rune alone changed his silky black hair to a dull brown, his luminous pale skin to a pallid white, his striking verdant eyes to a nondescript mildew colour, and even decreased his height and slight muscle tone. The most important feature of the rune, however, was the magic masking his Darkness. Powerful wizards would be able to sense him otherwise, a possibility which simply could not be allowed.

The rest was up to him. After completing the complex magic of his glamour, Carina had proceeded to coach him on everything from how to sit to the manner in which he should speak to his housemates. The entire process reminded him greatly of when she had first began her lessons on how to behave in when interacting in the upper echelons of wizarding society. It was tremendously difficult, all the tedium of learning to play the piano without any of the pleasure, but with practice he was able to adjust his smooth gait to a shuffling one, and transform his voice from melodious to scratchy and timid. 'Avoid eye contact,' his mother had told him, and so he would. Well, he would once he had someone's eyes to avoid. So far his only practice had been with Carina, and she was, well, his mother.

With a last glance at the unremarkable boy in the mirror, Hadrian turned and shuffled over to his trunk. _May as well start now,_ he thought. Be that as it may, he still refused to drag his trunk about like an imbecile. Pulling his persona's wand from a pocket in his black robes, he had nearly cast _Wingardium Leviosa_ when he remembered that this wand still bore the Trace. _Julian_ needed a wand as unexceptional as _Julian_ was, and Olivander's had been the ideal location to purchase such an item.

Upon entering the shop, Hadrian's plan had been to simply create some wandless sparks when he found a particularly average wand, but he had not expected a wand to actually _choose_ him. He was a vampire, after all, and though he had not yet reached his Inheritance, no normal wizard's wand should have been able to work for him. Yet the second wand he tried, a Holly wand with a Phoenix Feather core, had chosen him. The wand didn't work as well as his real wands of course, but the fact that it operated at all was remarkable.

Carina, coming from a long line of wandcrafters, had crafted his real wands for him. He had two twin wands, each fourteen inches long. Fashioned from Cherry wood with a core of his own blood (as was necessary for all vampires), he carried one in each hand while he was duelling. Ambidexterity didn't come naturally to Hadrian, but his mother had insisted he become equally dexterous with both hands not long after she had abducted him.

His real wands sat safely concealed within his trunk, in a hidden compartment along with the rest of Hadrian's personal belongings. If someone were to go through his trunk, they would find nothing other than inconspicuous robes and schoolbooks.

Storing his mask's wand away within his robes, Hadrian wandlessly levitated his trunk and walked from his room. He wouldn't be seeing it until the Yuletide holidays, but he refused to be sentimental. Shutting the heavy mahogany door behind him, Hadrian shambled his way down the stairs and onto the landing below. The mansion in which he and Carina resided was not as large as the Lutrova Manor in Moscow, or the family home of the Delacours in Marseille, but it was grand as was befitting for a family of their status.

Standing hunched over at the bottom of the staircase, Hadrian lowered his trunk to the floor and set off in search of his mother. Deciding to check her study first as it was closest, he made his calculatedly clumsy way down the hallway to his left, coming to a stop before the wooden door and proceeding to enter without knocking. The study was empty, as he had expected, but still he took the time to look about the room. Inhaling deeply, Hadrian relished the aroma that was so distinctively _home_. With his heightened sense of smell, he could identify the scent of parchment, leather, beeswax candles, and the almost non-existent odour of blood.

"Ah, Hadrian, there you are." Carina's voice sounded from behind him, and Hadrian turned to face her where she was leaning casually against the doorframe. Dressed in her favourite crimson robes, she looked young enough to be his sister. Born vampires ceased ageing between the ages of twenty and thirty, depending on their power level. She had reached her Inheritance at twenty-two, and did nothing to try and hide her apparent youth. In fact, with her silvery-blonde hair and feminine figure, she didn't look a day over seventeen.

"What took you so long, anyway? I was beginning to wonder if you had overslept," she smiled, chuckling at her little joke. For vampires, sleep was a luxury, not a necessity. Hadrian preferred to sleep nightly, though, a fact which Carina seemed to find endlessly amusing.

"Forgive me, I was merely mourning the loss of my handsome face." Hadrian countered with a grin.

"Right. Speaking of which, drop the glamour. I want to spend to spend this morning with my _son_ , not with you cretin." she lifted her chin in a haughty expression, scrunching her nose as if he she had smelled something distasteful.

Laughing, Hadrian pressed a finger to the back of his neck and released his hold on his magic. He could feel himself grow at least two inches, and contented himself with the fact that he could be _himself_ for at least a few more hours.

"Who wouldn't?" Hadrian smirked, "I'm simply irresistible."

"Arrogant brat," she scolded, fighting a smile.

"I learned from the best," his mother scowled, then reached out and took hold of his sleeve.

"Come along," she ignored his previous statement, pulling him out of her study and along the hallway towards the foyer, "You almost missed breakfast, you know,"

Hadrian froze mid-step.

"Breakfast," he deadpanned. They didn't _eat_ food. She had to be joking. Unless...

"Carina, you aren't suggesting what I think you're suggesting, are you?" it was nearly nine o'clock, but if she already had a place in mind, Hadrian would arrive at platform nine and three-quarters with time to spare.

"But of course I am, my dear. You didn't think I'd let you go off to Hogwarts without one last hunt, did you?" she pouted, "You'll be living off potions for months, after all."

"Where are we going?" he inquired, excitement building at the prospect of one last real meal.

"I know just the place," she held out her hand.

Hadrian took it, and together they faded into the shadows of the foyer.

~.~

They appeared a dingy, shadowed alleyway. The rough walls abutting the passage were obscured in some places by ivy vines, and it smelled distinctly of stale beer. The place seemed uncomfortable familiar, and it set Hadrian on edge. He tried to recall when he had been here before, but the memories were foggy at best, from the time before his Turning. Which meant...

"Carina, where are we?"

"Don't you recognise it?" she motioned him over to where the alley met the adjoining street.

With no small amount of dread, he followed her out into the open. There, sprawling out before him, was the little town of Cobham. _Faded my memories of this time might me, but even now I know that the damned orphanage is not five hundred meters from here,_ he thought bitterly.

"Why are we here?" he queried softly, "Carina, you know how I loathe this place."

"That I do, Hadrian. Your memories of this place are not fond ones, but I would like to change that."

He looked at her questioningly.

"We must all face our fears, child. In my life, I have learned that lesson well..." she trailed off, as if lost in thought, and not for the first time, Hadrian wondered how old his mother was. "Nevertheless, I vote we set about procuring ourselves some breakfast."

"Fine then. The rooftops?" Hadrian looked up at the buildings surrounding them. Though still morning, no shadows remained on top of the buildings.

"We'll have to apparate," Carina reminded him, "Fading won't work in this light."

"I know," Hadrian grimaced. He hated apparating. _Thank_ _Merlin_ it was seldom necessary.

Reaching out to take hold of his mother's shoulder, the vampire braced himself.

Apparently, side-along apparition was a great deal worse than apparating on one's own, and as they popped into being on the grimy brick rooftop of one of the houses they had been standing next to, Hadrian reflected upon the fact that he would be getting his apparition license the second he turned seventeen.

Collecting himself, the young vampire walked to the street-side edge of the flat rooftop and crouched down, observing his potential victims. Sensing a shift in the air, he knew that Carina had joined him.

Below them, men in suits and women with their children thronged the pavement, making easy children's blood tended to taste better, they were notoriously difficult to get on their own. Thus, the children were out of the question, and their mothers by default. That left the men, then, and any wayward teenagers playing truant from school.

Carina was the first to select her meal, "Gray suit, brown hair, somewhat young, and delectable." she said, pointing below and to their left.

The man she had chosen was an attractive, probably thirty-something businessman. Her usual. Carina always did seem to go for the handsome ones, Hadrian mused to himself.

"You want help?" he asked, already expecting her refusal. His mother liked to hunt alone, usually.

"Yes," she surprised him. He chalked it up to emotional women and the fact that he was leaving today.

Whatever the reason, Hadrian silently rose from his vantage point atop the brick structure and jumped down into the alley to it's right. His landed with a barely audible thud, followed closely by a second. Carina had descended after him, he knew. Pressing himself close to the wall of the alley, Hadrian waited for his chance. If he had evaluated the situation correctly, the man in the grey suit would be walking by right about...now.

With unparalleled speed, the young vampire reached out and grasped the man's arm, dragging him forcefully into the alleyway. Before he had a chance to get his bearings, Hadrian stepped back, pinning the man in place with his magic. As Carina approached him, hadrian released his hold on the man, allowing his mother to play with her food. He always felt uncomfortable, watching her feed. For vampires, feeding was usually either very intimate or painful, and Carina was more fond of the former than the latter. As she pressed the man in the grey suit against the wall, and ran her finger down his cheek, Hadrian looked away. He saw Carina as more of an older sister than a mother, really, but still he felt as though he were intruding on something personal.

When she had finished, the man sat slumped against the brick wall, the only evidence of the attack a bit of blood smeared on his suit. Vampire bites left no marks. Listening closely, Hadrian could make out the man's faint heartbeat, and noted that Carina had left him alive. With a wave of his hand, Hadrian cast a quick _obliviate_ and reached down to take the man's wallet. When he awoke, he would assume he had merely been robbed.

"I've taught you well," remarked Carina, shooting her son an approving grin.

"You have," Hadrian conceded, "Now, my turn."

This time, rather than apparating, Hadrian elected to simply climb the wall of the building. While difficult, several vines growing up the side of the structure made the task far from impossible, and Hadrian wasted no time in assuming his former position crouching on the edge.

Minutes passed without a sign of the perfect victim, and Hadrian began to grow restless. Just as he was contemplating giving up the hunt, a familiar figure caught his eye. His memories from that time were faded, yes, but some faces he would never forget. Such was the case with the youth he described now.

"Teenager, brown hair, skinny," he gestured in the general direction of the orphanage, for it was there that the boy was standing, appearing to be harassing a smaller figure standing near to him.

"You want help?" Carina echoed his earlier question.

"No. This one I want on my own." a predatory grin stretched across his young face, and Hadrian set of in the direction of his target. Leaping over the smaller spaces between rooftops and propelling himself with magic when necessary, Hadrian reached his destination in less than a minute.

Lowering himself from an overhanging roof until he was only feet from the ground, Hadrian touched down silently and crept up behind his target. The smaller child from earlier had run away, no doubt off to cry and nurse his wounds. John Barnet never saw it coming. One second, he was obliviously walking down the pavement, and the next, Hadrian had pulled him into his alley hiding-place. With a hand over his victim's mouth to muffle any possible scream, Hadrian observed as the boy's eyes morphed from surprise to recognition, and then to fear upon seeing Hadrian's face.

Releasing his hold over the brunette's mouth, the young vampire wandlessly cast a bubble of silence around them and stepped back to observe his breakfast.

"Still tormenting defenseless children, I see," started Hadrian, as he began to walk slow circles around the youth he was addressing, "One would think you would have learned, after all these years."

"I- I- I wasn't doin' nuthin', h- honest," Barnet stuttered, but the words died on his lips. Though still taller than Hadrian, Barnet seemed much less intimidating now than he had when Hadrian was younger.

"Because, _John_ ," Hadrian continued on as if he hadn't hears the boy's attempted denial, "Little children aren't always so defenceless at all,"

With that, Hadrian let his glamour fall completely, revealing impossibly pale skin and sharp fangs. Barnet's gasp was lost on Hadrian as the vampire sunk his sharp teeth into the brunette's throat, but his resulting scream his actions elicited most definitely was not. Hadrian revelled in the power he had over the boy, relishing his screams and the steady stream of blood pumping into his mouth, weaker as the seconds wore on. Just when the boy was on the edge of dying of blood loss, Hadrian retracted his fangs.

Hunger sated and feeling immensely satisfied, Hadrian left John Barnet lying on the ground in the alleyway. The vampire wouldn't wipe his memories. _No,_ thought Hadrian, _let him remember this as I remember the bruises and the broken bones. Let him remember, but never breath a word of it for fear of being thought insane._ John Barnet would never again terrorize a helpless child, Hadrian knew. He thought of it as a small service to the world.

Walking smoothly into the shadows of the alley, Hadrian was surprised when his foot fell upon something soft, and, well, mobile. Looking down, Hadrian was astonished to see a very familiar serpent spitting angrily on the ground.

“ _ **Stupid human, stepping on me in his ignorance. I should bite him.”**_ the snake hissed, and Hadrian couldn't help but chuckle. Snakes were so temperamental.

" _ **Is that you, Samsa?"**_ he inquired. It wasn't every day that one spoke to a snake, after all, and though many years ago, Hadrian still recalled the forest cobra he had met in the park when he was five years old.

" _ **How do you know me, speaker? Was it you whom I spoke to when you were but a tiny hatchling?"**_ the serpent's gaze was suspicious now, as she raised her head to look him in the eyes.

" _ **Yes, Samsa, it was I. I apologise for disturbing you, but I must be leaving now. It has been a pleasure to speak with such a great serpent such as yourself once more."**_ Hadrian flattered, aware that he needed to be returning home.

" _ **I like you, human, and therefore I shall forgive you on the condition that you take me with you wherever it is that you are going."**_ Samsa stated matter-of-factly, and Hadrian couldn't help but stare at her incredulously. It wasn't that he didn't want to take her to Hogwarts with her, but rather the fact that especially if he was in Slytherin house, a snake could easily expose him. Parselmouths weren't common, after all.

" _ **I apologise, great serpent, but where I am going your majestic species is not allowed. Were you to come with me, you would constantly have to remain hidden."**_ hopefully, Samsa would change her mind and elect to remain in Cobham. But his hopes were not to be.

" _ **I shall accompany you, speaker. I grow tired of this place, and at least you are decent company. I shall conceal myself as you ask, but you must treat me well or I shall not hesitate to bite. I am extremely venomous, I assure you."**_

With a final hiss and a flick of her tongue, Samsa slithered her way up his body until she was coiled around his shoulders. Hadrian heaved a sigh of defeat and resigned himself to a difficult life. Starting with explaining this to Carina.

" _ **Come then, Samsa. It is time you met my mother."**_ and with that, he melted into the shadows.

~.~

"Absolutely not." were the first words out of Carina's mouth when Hadrian stepped from the foyer with a large snake coiled about his shoulders.

"But _mother_ , she was ever so lonely and she has promised to conceal herself while I'm at Hogwarts." Hadrian pouted. Carina's brows knitted. Hadrian knew he was taking advantage of her maternal tendencies, but what else was he to do? A well placed 'mother' could go far with Carina, a fact Hadrian was currently exploiting. He didn't feel guilty, though. What with who they were, a little bit of manipulation was commonplace in the household, and even as she scowled, Hadrian could see her arguments crumbling and her shoulders sagging in defeat.

"If she exposes you-"

"She's promised to remain hid-"

" _If she exposes you,"_ his mother's voice was low and deadly, "I will stake you myself just to save time." her face was stony, and they looked fixedly at each other for a long moment.

"I understand," Hadrian nodded, and he did. His mother wouldn't kill him, he knew, but he understood her implications. If he was exposed, it was only a matter of time until Grindelwald found him, and _then_ , he was as good as dead.

"Come now, child." she smiled, and the moment was over. "It's ten thirty and past time you Flooed to the platform."

She placed her hand gently on Hadrian's upper back (careful to avoid Samsa) and guided him into the parlour, where the fireplace connected to the Floo Network was located. The room held little furniture; only two leather armchairs, a chaise, and Hadrian's piano.

Hadrian thought of his life in terms of _before_ , and _after_.

Not before and after Carina rescued him, as one would guess, but rather before and after _the piano_.

Throughout the course of Hadrian's childhood, Carina had taken great care to make sure that he was properly refined, as befitted a child of his standing. In addition to ambidexterity, Carina had insisted on him mastering at least two other languages. Hadrian, being the stubborn child that he was, had insisted on living in the countries whose languages he was to learn. Thus, he had lived in Germany the first year he spent with Carina, and in France from his eighth birthday onward. Hadrian's French tutor had lived in a small flat in Marseilles, the floor below a concert pianist, and it was in France, during one of his French lessons, that Hadrian had become fascinated by the instrument that was the _pianoforte_.

 _'Before'_ was a city blurred by rain, the cold of the orphanage, the emptiness that was hunger.

 _'After'_ was finally _living_.

Hadrian broke away from his mother, walking briskly over to the instrument he had come to think of as his best friend. He'd taken lessons from a Muggle (much to Carina's displeasure) for the sole reason that the man was widely known as the best piano instructor in the south of France. Hadrian had picked up the technique quickly, delving into his studies of the instrument with unparalleled enthusiasm, and even after they had returned to Britain just before his eleventh birthday (having stayed in France far longer than Carina had intended), Hadrian still travelled to Paris weekly, for lessons. Now, he wouldn't get to play until the winter holidays. The thought left Hadrian's chest feeling hollow.

"Hadrian, before you go, I have two things I would like to give you." Carina's voice cut through his reverie, and there was a serious note to it that set Hadrian on edge. What was she referring to?

He ran a longing hand along the shoulder of the piano, but followed Carina over to the fireplace. She seated herself in a supple leather armchair while Hadrian sat across from her on the chaise. She just watched him, for a minute, calculating and memorizing, and Hadrian watched her, doing the same. Hogwarts would be lonely without Carina, and suddenly Hadrian was very glad that Samsa had insisted upon accompanying him to his new school.

Reaching into a pocket of her robes, Carina withdrew a dull bronze ring.

"This is a portkey, Hadrian. Though not particularly strong, it will get you home from wherever you are. To activate it, just take it off and say 'home'. I want you to wear it while you are in your persona. It's unremarkable enough for _Julian_." Hadrian took the proffered ring and slipped it on to the middle finger of his right hand.

Then, sitting back in her chair, his mother asked the last thing Hadrian was expecting.

"Hadrian, do you know what the bracelets on our left arms are?" glancing at his own wrist, free from glamours, he admired the silver band that was as familiar to him as his own limbs. He hesitated before he replied.

"They are the marks of born vampires. They identify us and are impossible to remove." he spoke slowly. They had only spoken of them in passing, and only now did Hadrian realise that he knew next to nothing of their nature.

"Yes and no. They are the marks of born vampires, but they are not impossible to remove," she watched him with measuring eyes as he attempted to hide his shock. He had tried to remove his countless times, both by physical and magical means. But the bracelet was, for all intents and purposes, a part of him.

"Give me your hand, Hadrian." she instructed, and tentatively, he placed his left hand in hers. They were the same size now, he noted absently. "The mark of a born vampire is not meant as a form of identification, though it does serve that purpose. You see, the bracelet can be taken off, but only when it is being gifted. Once the bracelet is gifted, it can be used as a sort of communication device." as she said this, she moved her right hand to her left wrist where her mark sat, gleaming and silver.

"The bracelet can only be given once, and only to one person." the bracelet came loose from her wrist as she tugged at it, "Once I give this to you, Hadrian, I can never take it back." the silver band had expanded now, enough to fit over their clasped hands and over to his own arm. "You will be able to remove it, Hadrian, don't worry," she consoled, mistaking the panic in his eyes for being brought about by the prospect of another permanent adornment. That was wrong, though. He had known that Carina loved him, but this was _part of her._ Hadrian couldn't imagine parting with his.

"It works as a two-way mirror, but we'll also be able to pass objects through it. You'll be bored at school, Hadrian. You've already learned the material and you'll have to do poorly on purpose. I will be able to send you books with this, to keep you occupied. Also, this will work as a portkey." seeing Hadrian's eyes travel to the newly acquired ring on his right hand, she continued on, "Not to here, Hadrian, to me. It is tied to my magic. Wherever I am, it will bring you to me." he nodded slowly. It was a lot to take in.

"How do I activate it?" he asked, more to break the silence than anything else.

"Simply wish for what you want it to do. It's instinctual, don't worry."

"I'll wear it always." Hadrian promised, and with his words, the silver bracelet so similar yet so different from his own settled on his wrist, below his own mark.

"Well," Carina stood, pulling her son into an embrace, "I suppose you had best be leaving."

Hadrian looked at the large clock on the wall opposite him. A quarter to eleven.

"You have everything? You didn't forget your blood substituting potions, did you?" Carina fretted, and Hadrian couldn't help but laugh.

"Yes, mother, I have everything."

"Don't forget what we've worked on, now. You must be-"

"-Unremarkable, I know. Don't worry about me, Carina." Hadrian pressed the rune on the nape of his neck, and felt his glamour go up.

"I'll always worry about you, Hadrian," she said sadly. Hadrian pulled her into another hug, noting that this time she was more enthusiastic (probably due to the fact that Samsa was now hidden beneath his robes).

"And I about you." he smiled, and stepped into the fireplace. He blew his mother one last kiss, and spared a forlorn glance in the direction of his piano. Holding his trunk in one hand and Floo powder in the other, Hadrian disappeared with an exclamation of "Platform nine and three-quarters!"

.

~.~

.

The train ride to Hogwarts was uneventful, with Hadrian sitting alone in a compartment at the back of the train, hunched over and pretending to sleep. He had forbidden Samsa to emerge until later that night, so nervous was he that his ruse might be discovered.

Upon their arrival at Hogsmeade station, the first years were summoned by a tall, frail old man who appeared to be the groundskeeper. Hadrian sat with three other first years in a small black boat as they were transported across the 'Black Lake'. While the other three introduced themselves and chatted about where the thought they might be Sorted, Hadrian sniffled and avoided eye contact.

When they arrived in the entrance hall, a tall old man with a crooked nose and a greying auburn beard was introduced as Professor Dumbledore. Hadrian knew of Albus Dumbledore, of course, for in his education on the current politics of England, Hadrian had learned of all the influential people, but no book could have prepared him for actually meeting the man in person. His magic was powerful, oh yes, but it was _so light_. As the man spoke of the virtues of each of the four houses (though he seemed particularly fond of Gryffindor), Hadrian had to fight back waves of nausea at the man's oppressive power.

When the doors opened to the Great Hall, Hadrian hardly had to feign his look of awe. The Hall was alight with the brightness of a thousand candles, and the ceiling seemed to open up to the heavens. The four house tables of sat perpendicular to the Professors', and in front of that final table sat the tattered Sorting Hat, perched atop a low, brown stool.

The sorting hat sang a song, the lyrics of which were soon forgotten as Dumbledore began calling out names.

A Malfoy and a Nott went to Slytherin, but those were the only names he took special note of. When "Pearce, Julian!" was called out, Hadrian responded immediately, shuffling at a calculatedly slow pace ( _too_ slowly, and he would draw unwanted attention) , Hadrian sat down on the small stool, waiting for Dumbledore to place the hat on his head. Being this close to the professor made it hard to breathe, and when the hat dropped over his eyes, he was thankful if only for the distraction.

 _'Oh, my!'_ a small voice seemed to speak almost directly into his mind, _'Quite a few secrets you have here,_ Mr. Pearce _. Mr. Pearce indeed!'_ Hadrian scowled, _'Now, let's see...Ravenclaw would suit you, with a mind like that. A great deal of courage in there too, I see, but I fear that Gryffindor isn't the House for you. No, I don't think there's any question about where you belong, though if you continue to hide your true self, I have no doubt your housemates will disagree...But no, I must sort you where you belong. A more cunning child I don't know if I have ever seen, and a Parselmouth too, no less! No, there's no question about you, child, it had better be "_ SLYTHERIN!"

The last word resounded throughout the hall, and as Hadrian stood and shambled his way to his rightful table, he was met with a smattering of applause and more than a smattering of disgusted looks. Sitting on the far end of the table, many of the nearby students turned their heads away in distaste. They would leave him alone for the most part, Hadrian knew. He might be a disgrace to their house, but he was still a pureblood. Pearce was a common pureblood last name, one that would go unquestioned and further encourage his anonymity. The next boy sorted into Slytherin would have a more difficult time.

Riddle. Many would think the boy a mudblood, but Hadrian knew better. He could sense the boy's magic, and what magic it was! The boy would be Dark, that much was obvious, but Riddle would also be powerful. Hadrian took a moment to pity the children who turned up their noses at Riddle's name. The would regret it.

When the sorting had concluded, Headmaster Dippet gave a brief speech about avoiding the Forbidden Forest and observing curfew, and then the feast began. Hadrian served himself small portions of food, pushing steak and carrots around with his fork and wandlessly vanishing them bit by bit. He had to appear human, after all.

That night, as Hadrian lay on his bed in the Slytherin dormitories, he contemplated the evening. After dinner, they had been shown to and given the password for the common room ('pure'). Hadrian had retired to the dormitories early (tripping on his way up the stairs), intent on having the room alone to himself so that he could deal with Samsa. She had agreed to hide on one of the posts of his four-poster when the curtains weren't drawn, but as he lay in bed now, she was coiled on his legs.

He heard the sound of the door creaking open, and the voices of his dorm mates drifted through Hadrian's curtains as they prepared for bed. Abraxas Malfoy; Orion Black; Renatus Nott; Tom Riddle. The people he would be living with for the next seven years. The people he would have to deceive above all others. No doubt some of them would go on to follow Grindelwald, in which case it was even more imperative that Hadrian's true identity remained a secret. But they would see what they wanted to see, and Hadrian had ensured that thew say a cowardly, harmless little boy.

"Do you think he's asleep?" a voice asked, _Nott_ , if Hadrian was correct.

"Yeah," replied someone who sounded like Malfoy, "He's been up here for hours."

"He's such a coward. Won't even look anyone in the eyes," interjected a voice which could only belong to Black.

"The disgrace of Slytherin." agreed Riddle, accepted as one of them already.

After that, the conversation moved onto other topics, until eventually the room fell silent, and steady breathing echoing all through the dormitory. And as Hogwarts slept, the 'disgrace of Slytherin' smiled.

He would not fail.


	3. Follow the Leader

**Follow the Leader**

.

~.~

.

" _A secret's worth depends on the people from whom it must be kept."_

Carlos Ruiz Zafón, _The Shadow of the Wind_

.

~.~

.

Morning sunlight streamed in through large bay windows, illuminating the room with a soft glow. Late summer sunbeams seemed to dance across the floor and walls, finally alighting on the two figures laying still on the black silken sheets of the large oaken bed which monopolized most of the room's vast space. One of the characters appeared to be breathing steadily, but the other was motionless, his only movement the flicking of his too-green eyes as they regarded the extensive grounds visible through the windows.

Rolling green foothills rose into majestic purple mountains, snow-capped even on the first of September. Hadrian's gaze fell on the wildflowers scattered across the alpine meadows, but he looked past them, not really seeing the tiny edelweiss or daffodils that decorated the hillocks like the stars did the night sky. No, Hadrian's thoughts were not on the beautiful Zurich countryside amidst which Nott Manor was situated, but rather on the man whose arm was draped over the vampire's waist, and whose head rested on his pale chest.

Hadrian allowed a frown to crease his forehead as he watched his lover dream. The pureblood's chestnut locks were mussed with sleep, and probably also from their activities the night before. His smooth skin was tanned golden from the summer, though Hadrian knew from past observation that it would fade when he returned to the stone walls of Hogwarts.

Hogwarts. How Hadrian dreaded his return to that place. Over the years, he had grown accustomed to the game of secrets and manipulation, to hiding himself behind his mask of ineptitude and weakness. Sometimes he even _enjoyed_ the benefits of his persona. So unexceptionable was his facade that even the most clever of Slytherins treated him with little more caution than another feature of the common room. Thus, Hadrian learned their secrets and their plans, and they learned nothing of him.

Hadrian ran a pale hand through the brunette's hair. No, it wasn't the secretiveness and solitude that made Hadrian wish the summer could last forever; it was _this_. Renatus Nott was one of the few people in the vampire's life that were something close to friends. While he didn't know about Hadrian's vampirism or his Hogwarts persona, Renatus knew _him_. He knew Hadrian's idiosyncrasies and eccentricities. He knew that sometimes, when Hadrian was in a particularly desolate mood, clouds would gather in clear skies, and rain would fall. He knew that Hadrian was happiest when he was playing the piano, and that he didn't have a favourite composer. He knew that Hadrian preferred mulled mead to wine, and enjoyed spicy african teas in the afternoon. He knew Hadrian as a person, as a friend, and that was what Hadrian would miss upon his return to Hogwarts; the easy conversation that he had access to as himself.

Renatus and Hadrian had become acquainted the summer before his third year at Hogwarts. It was that year that Carina had deemed him prepared enough to finally attend a Gathering. Lasting three nights and two days, the Gatherings were held during Yuletide and Summer, ending on the night of the Winter or Summer Solstice. The Gatherings were held at a different location each time, so as to avoid detection by the Ministries. While most Ministries were more tolerant of Dark wizards than Britain was, changing locations was a precaution they still took. This year, the Gathering had been held at Blevins Manor here in Zurich, mere miles from the Nott estate. The first Gathering Hadrian attended had been held in Oslo, Norway, and it was there that he had met many of his now close acquaintances.

Two years apart, at fifteen and seventeen at the time, brothers Drystan and Andras Morgan had been the exemplars of respectable young purebloods. As he was mastering the subtleties of pureblood decorum, Hadrian had seen the Welsh Morgan brothers as role models of sorts, though he soon surpassed them in the game of influence. Now, as Hadrian was entering his sixth year at Hogwarts, Drystan and Andras remained close to him even as they immersed themselves fully into the world of politics.

As Carina never aged, she preferred operate as an unseen force in the Gatherings. Her name was well known, but her face was seldom seen unless she was doing direct business with a potential ally. Hadrian remembered fondly the occasion when his mother had shown him her memory of meeting the French Minister of Magic for the first time. Upon introducing herself as the famed and feared Carina Valavicius, the man had assumed her to be jesting.

To take part in a Gathering, one first had to first attend as a guest. Unable to accompany Hadrian to the Gathering in Oslo, Carina had introduced him to the son of an associate of hers. Bayard Carax was a French youth a year older than Hadrian, and even as a boy, Bayard had been taller than most wizards. Now that he was fully grown, Bayard towered over even Hadrian, who was nearly six feet tall. But once one saw past his imposing exterior (which had taken Hadrian _years_ ), Bayard was no doubt the most loyal person to be found at any given Gathering. Hadrian was fortunate to have befriended the frenchman, for loyalty was rare among the purebloods. Hadrian trusted no one. He tried to remind himself that he couldn't afford to give his trust freely, even in such cases as Bayard and Renatus.

Hadrian frowned as he looked at the man sleeping on his chest. Renatus was the only of his housemates whom Hadrian had seen at the Gatherings over the years. No doubt the others were involved in the politics on some level, but it was Renatus that was most active in the upper echelons of Dark society. At first, Hadrian had avoided him on the premise that he didn't want anyone knowing both of his personas, even independently. Soon though, he reasoned that connections were connections, and if his true nature _was_ ever revealed, he would need as many as he could get.

And so they had become allies, associates, acquaintances, and now lovers. When Renatus had approached him at the Gathering this summer, Hadrian had made it clear that he couldn't be in a relationship with attachments. _Not that that helped much,_ thought the vampire bitterly. Renatus was in love with him. The pureblood hid it behind a practiced mask of indifference, but to the expert of appearances that Hadrian was, the feelings were obvious. Hadrian frowned. He should end it, he knew, but it was just so _convenient_. He was attractive enough, his dark magic was simply delicious, and he was more trustworthy than most.

Sighing, Hadrian gently disentangled himself from his sleeping lover and set about finding his clothing. As he shrugged on his blue velvet robes, the vampire reached into a pocket and extracted a pair of golden necklaces. Hadrian furrowed his brows as he examined the pieces of jewellery. Renatus would take this the wrong way, Hadrian was sure of it. But what else could he do? With the war with Grindelwald on the rise and violence escalating quickly in Britain, Hadrian was _worried_ about him. He cared about his friend's wellbeing, yes, but he also cared about his _memories_. If he were to be captured by Grindelwald's forces, his knowledge of Hadrian could lead to disaster. While a capable wizard, the Nott heir wouldn't stand a chance against Grindelwald's men, and Hadrian knew that the pureblood's Slytherin 'friends' wouldn't protect him in a crisis.

Oh, Hadrian knew of what Tom Riddle was doing. Recruiting the older children and teaching them dark magic, the 'heir of Slytherin' was raising an army. Maybe he didn't call it such, but unlike the halfblood's 'minions', Hadrian wasn't blind. Riddle was a Dark Lord in the making, gathering followers before he had even come of age. Hadrian scowled. Renatus would be recruited this year, Hadrian was sure. Riddle would use him to get to a Gathering. But the 'Knights of Walpurgis' wouldn't be any help at all to Renatus, if it came down to defending him. Slytherins had too well-developed a sense of self-preservation. _And the pot called the kettle black,_ he thought wryly as he fastened one of the pendants around his neck.

Hadrian had made the necklaces after spending weeks researching the born vampire bracelets, reversing the idea of the portkey feature to suit his needs. While not nearly as advanced, the small, rune-covered golden pendants would work as a sort of backwards portkey. If Renatus was in need of help, the magic could latch onto Hadrian's location and transport him to the Nott heir. While not beautiful, the pendants would serve their function, and Hadrian would be able to sleep more soundly at night.

Hearing rustling behind him, Hadrian was unsurprised when two bare arms snaked around his waist.

"Leaving already, Hadrian?" the brunette questioned, his words slow and clumsy with sleep.

"I am. You know I'm needed back by nine," Hadrian replied, and it was true, sort of. He was mostly packed for Hogwarts, but ideally he would have time to brew more blood-substituting potions. He was running low. Also, he wanted a chance to practice the piano once more prior to his departure. "Besides, doesn't the Hogwarts Express leave at eleven?" he feigned uncertainty.

Hadrian felt Renatus sigh, strong arms falling away from the vampire as he sat tiredly on the edge of the bed. Hadrian turned to face him, memorizing the features of his face and body. He always looked different at Hogwarts. More on edge, perhaps.

"It does," he confirmed dejectedly, "I wish my parents would simply let me study with tutors at home, like you," Renatus referenced another of Hadrian's many half-truths. If one considered Carina a _tutor_ , then the statement was perfectly valid.

"But you enjoy Hogwarts, don't you?" Hadrian inquired, sitting down next to him. Renatus had always seemed content with the school when they had spoken of it before, and the pureblood's new perspective was unexpected.

"I, well...do you remember that halfblood I told you about, Tom Riddle?" it was always somewhat surreal, speaking about life at Hogwarts like this, as if he were completely removed and had no idea what was going on. Hadrian nodded. "Well, sometimes he gets a group together, and they practice Dark Arts. This year, I think I'll be asked to join them."

"What's so dreadful about that?" Hadrian played his part. He knew perfectly well what was _so dreadful about that_. "You're a Dark wizard, surely a bit more practice can't hurt, can it?"

"I'm not concerned about the Dark Arts; I'm concerned about _Riddle_." and Renatus had it right. He _should_ be concerned about Riddle. If the vampire had his way, his friend would be as far away from the Prefect as Hadrian could possibly get him.

"What about him?" Hadrian questioned dutifully, "I know he's the 'Heir of Slytherin', but he's only a halfblood. Surely there's nothing to worry about," it wouldn't do well to sound _too_ understanding.

"That's just it. He's not only a halfblood. I mean, he _is_ a halfblood, but he's _powerful_. He's _dangerous_. You should see the control he has over the school. Even the _Gryffindors_ yield to him."

It was true. Though reckless, there were very few Gryffindors who dared disobey the 'Prince of Slytherin'.

Renatus seemed to debate with himself over what to say next. "I don't want to be a follower," he whispered, "I'm... _frightened,_ Hadrian," the vampire was shocked. Not that the brunette was afraid, for that was perfectly understandable, but that he had admitted it. _He must actually_ trust _me,_ Hadrian mused. He supposed now was as good a time as any.

Reaching for Renatus's hand, Hadrian fished the necklace from his pocket.

"I want you to always wear this," he said as he pressed the gold pendant into his friend's fingers. "If you ever need help, use your magic to activate this, and it will bring me to you. I don't want anything to happen to you, Renatus," seeing the look of awed adoration that blossomed on the pureblood's face, Hadrian immediately regretted his choice of words. "You are my _friend_ , after all," he added quickly.

The Nott heir's face fell slightly at the word, but he quickly covered it up. Smiling and thanking Hadrian profusely, he swore to never take it off.

"Well, I must be leaving now," the vampire stood from the bed.

"I'll see you at the Yuletide Gathering, won't I?" Renatus questioned, and Hadrian hated how eager the pureblood sounded.

"You will," he replied, and with that he took his leave.

.

~.~

.

The Hogwarts Express screeched to a halt at Hogsmeade Station, the scarlet train glinting a dull maroon in the starlight. Spilling out onto the platform as the doors hissed open, the students of Hogwarts chatted amiably as they made their ways to the horseless carriages.

As the crowd moved away from the platform, a tall, dark figure stepped from the locomotive. Skin glowing pale in the semidarkness and deep brown hair appearing nearly black, Tom Riddle walked gracefully toward the last of the carriages at a sedate pace. It wouldn't leave with a student in sight.

Climbing into the carriage, Tom noted that it was full of fifth year Hufflepuffs. Giving a friendly smile, he greeted them all by name and proceeded to ask if they had already finished their summer reading for Herbology. Hufflepuffs were so easy to please. As they gave their animated replies, launching wholeheartedly into a discussion on Bobotuber Pus, Tom allowed his mind to wander. His summer had been simply abysmal, spent mostly hiding in the cramped bomb shelter at the orphanage. With the muggle war raging across Europe, Wool's was a miserable place to be. He wouldn't be returning there again, though. As one of the oldest students in his year, he would come of age on December thirty-first.

The carriage rolled to a stop, and Tom disembarked with the Hufflepuffs. Waving a cheery goodbye to the fifth years, Tom sighed internally. He had worked hard to establish friendly relations with every house, but at times it grew tiresome. Ravenclaws were fine, but Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors grated on his nerves. They were so loud, so friendly, so _trusting_. At least he could use the latter quality to his advantage.

Now, he was known and liked (or at least tolerated) in all four houses and all the Professors adored him, with the exception of Dumbledore. This year, Tom would focus less on his public image and more on personal matters, such as locating the Chamber of Secrets.

Shaking himself from thoughts, the heir of Slytherin traced the steps of his great ancestor as he climbed the steps to the vestibule, and strode past the immense oak doors into the Great Hall. As he entered the room, the ambient magic of Hogwarts seemed to caress his own in recognition. The castle was neither Light nor Dark, just lingering residue of student's spells accumulated over the centuries.

Crossing the hall, Tom took his customary seat at the Slytherin table. In the house of the snakes, even the seating at meals was hierarchical. Tom, though only now entering his sixth year, was at the top. He had risen quickly in influence once he let his ability to speak Parseltongue become known, and now he sat at the middle of the table, facing the doors. To his right sat Elliot Rosier. He was a seventh year, as were Lestrange and Avery, who sat across from him. To Tom's left was his dorm-mate Abraxas Malfoy, followed by Orion Black. Those were his principal followers. Beyond them were newer recruits.

Mostly present sixth and seventh years, his Death Eaters were a select group. Tom selected only the elite to be his followers, the most talented, intelligent, or powerful. Beyond his Death Eaters, the Slytherins ranked themselves, highest closest to the centre, and lowest on the ends of the table. At the end farthest from the Professors' table, sat the outcast of Slytherin. _What is the boy's name?_ he struggled to remember. Pearce. That was it, not that it mattered. The boy always sat by himself, too afraid to attempt conversation with any of his housemates. How the dullard had managed to be sorted into Slytherin was still a mystery.

Students concluded their seating and Headmaster Dippet gave a standard beginning-of-term speech. After that, the feast commenced, and Tom made light conversation with those seated around around him.

"Was your summer pleasant, Tom?" inquired Abraxas politely.

"It was," he said shortly, not mentioning the orphanage. It was known that Tom was an orphan, though not openly discussed. "And you, Abraxas? How were your holidays?"

Abraxas scowled, "They were _almost_ very exciting. I had received an invitation to attend the Gathering in Zurich with a distant cousin from France, but she canceled at the last minute." this piqued Tom's curiosity. The way Malfoy had said it made this 'Gathering' seem to be an event of great import.

"Gathering?" he queried, careful to keep his tone one of nonchalance.

"Oh, right. I always forget that you weren't raised..." Abraxas trailed off, quailing under Tom's glare. Drawing in a deep breath, the pureblood began again.

"The Gatherings are held twice a year. They are a sort of conference of Dark wizards, where the most elite of the purebloods meet to form alliances and discuss Dark society." the wizard paused cautiously, and Tom motioned for him to continue.

"They are by invitation only, meaning that the first time you attend you must come as a guest. The specific locations aren't known to even the pureblood public. The French line of the Malfoys has been attending for several seasons now, and this summer I was to be the guest of my cousin Alexandra. She grew ill several days before the event." the blonde finished tensely, awaiting his Lord's response.

Tom nodded in approbation, and Abraxas seemed to relax. _This_ was certainly an interesting development. And potentially advantageous. The heir of Slytherin would most definitely be attending one of these Gatherings, though he would first need to find someone to bring him as a guest...

"Abraxas, do any of the current Hogwarts students attend these Gatherings?"

The pureblood frowned for a moment, "I can't say for sure, as I have never been present at one myself, but there is speculation...I've heard it rumoured that Renatus Nott's family is quite involved in the Dark political milieu."

Tom nodded, and Abraxas turned back to his meal. He had been planning on recruiting the Nott heir this year anyway, but he would have to make it more of a priority. Nott was intelligent enough, the halfblood knew from sharing a dorm with him the past five years. He was also powerful, if he remembered correctly.

Tom Riddle had spent months during his first year researching the reason that he could feel magic. The information wasn't readily available, for it was a somewhat rare ability. While nowhere near as unique as Parseltongue, magic sensing was an ability exclusive to powerful wizards. While the average wizard could 'feel' the magic of someone especially powerful, Tom could sense everyone. Well, almost everyone. Some wizards were so weak that their magic was barely even existent. He couldn't feel any power _whatsoever_ coming from Pearce. The imbecile.

Glancing down the table to where the Nott heir sat, Tom reached subtly out to assess his magic. While not incredibly powerful, Nott was definitely Dark. But there was something _off_ about his aura magic. A taint. If Tom concentrated, he could detect traces of a magic infinitely Darker and more powerful than the pureblood's own. Curious. Looking closely, Tom observed that Nott seemed to be fiddling with something around his neck in a distinctly un-pureblood manner. While he couldn't see what it was from where he was sitting currently, he vowed to investigate it later. The entire situation warranted looking into.

.

~.~

.

Dust swirled lazily through the air, the minuscule particles illuminated by the occasional sunbeam which streamed in through the few windows in the Library. Outside, the weather was relatively warm, and the majority of Hogwarts' students were out on the grounds, enjoying the rarity of a sunny day in October. Near the groundskeeper's hut, enormous orange pumpkins were being magically carved for the Halloween feast. The mood in Hogwarts was lively, children delightedly looking forward to tonight's festivities.

In a secluded corner of the library, behind multitudinous bookcases and tables, and in a section devoted solely to the lengthy history of House-elves, sat Hadrian Peverell. Hadrian had found this place a few months into his first year, and it had since become a sanctuary of sorts. In all the time he had spent here, not once had he encountered another person, and it was for this reason that he sought the place today.

A ray of sunlight fell on him where he sat, reflecting off his shiny black hair. Hadrian currently appeared as himself, his glamour dropped and his robes temporarily resized. The glamour grew heavy after a while, and so Hadrian often found deserted corridors or empty classrooms in which to take a break from his facade. Powerful proximity wards would alert him if someone were to come near his section of the Library, though the possibility was highly unlikely. For some reason, the denizens of Hogwarts seemed entirely uninterested in House-elves.

It was here, amidst numerous ceiling high piles of books (magically held upright) that Hadrian mourned the death of his parents. Though their deaths had been when he was a mere infant, Carina and he had long ago come to the conclusion that they had been murdered defending him, and Hadrian appreciated their sacrifice greatly. And so every Halloween, on the anniversary of their deaths, he took his time to honour his parents' memories, if only by thinking about them. Carina had showed him what few memories of his parents she possessed, though they were mostly of political meetings. He had been surprised at how _old_ some of the recollections were. It had certainly been odd to observe serious conversations being held while the women were outfitted in corsets and hoop-skirts, and the men wore waistcoats and wigs.

Hadrian turned his head to look out the window, watching as students strolled around the lake or lay on the yellow grass. His feet were propped up on the small table which sat in his corner, and a book on warding was open in his lap, though he wasn't reading it.

It was at that moment that moment that his proximity wards went off, startling him our of his memories of memories. Recognising the approaching magical signature as that of Samsa, Hadrian didn't bother to reapply his glamour or even adjust his position.

The serpent had long ago learned to navigate the castle undetected, slithering through large pipes in the stone walls. The curiously empty passageways existed throughout the castle, and were extremely convenient for concealing Samsa's presence in the school.

" _ **I see that you are you, today, master."**_ she said the last word in jest, slithering up his brown leather chair and coming to rest on his shoulders. Hadrian knew that she thought of him more as 'her human' than anything.

" _ **I am always me,"**_ the vampire teased with a smile.

" _ **Well, I prefer**_ **this** _ **you. The other one's very ugly."**_

Hadrian chuckled as he stroked her scaled head.

" _ **Why are you here, Samsa? Last I saw you, you were napping contentedly in the dormitory,"**_

" _ **I decided to go exploring!"**_ she said with as much enthusiasm as snakes are capable of.

Hadrian looked at her curiously, _**"You've already explored the entire castle, haven't you?"**_ Together they had found the Room of Hidden Things, the kitchens (not that Hadrian used them), all of the other three common rooms, and many a secret passageway.

" _ **Not quite,"**_ she responded slyly, _**"You see, I decided to go exploring the**_ **pipes** _ **."**_

The answer was so simple, yet immediately Hadrian was intrigued. She wouldn't be here if she hadn't found something significant.

" _ **What have you found?"**_ he inquired eagerly.

" _ **Oh, something very exciting indeed."**_ she stated smugly.

Hadrian looked at her expectantly.

" _ **Well, I'm not just going to**_ **tell** _ **you, then, am I?"**_ questioned rhetorically, _**"That would ruin all the fun. No, you must find it yourself."**_ with that, she slithered off.

" _ **Wait, Samsa!"**_ he hissed exasperatedly, _**"Where am I even supposed to go?"**_ he couldn't very well be seen traipsing through the corridors following a deadly snake.

" _ **If I were you, I'd start my search in the second floor girl's lavatory,"**_ came the forest cobra's answer from beyond the bookshelves.

" _ **My search for**_ **what** _ **?"**_ the vampire called, but there was no reply.

Hadrian cursed, quickly raising his glamour and shrinking his robes to fit his smaller body. Shrinking the Warding text he had been trying to read (it wouldn't do for the hardly literate Julian Pearce to be seen carrying around a _book_ ) to fit into his pocket, he hurried along after his snake as quickly as he could without drawing attention to himself.

 _If I were you, I'd start my search in the second floor girl's lavatory?_ he repeated to himself incredulously. Perhaps the serpent had gone insane after all. She did always complain that only speaking to Hadrian was 'simply maddening'. Why, when it had been discovered that Tom Riddle was a Parselmouth, it had taken hours of convincing and several threats to make her promise not to remain unknown to the 'Heir of the Mightiest of Serpent Speakers'

Entering the empty girl's bathroom on the second floor, Hadrian was out of breath. Even the small walk from the Library to here was exhausting for the feeble body of Julian. He walked over to the sinks in the centre of the room, leaning against them as he caught his breath. The sinks were arranged in a regular octagon, with a cap over them like a roof, the white porcelain basins facing outward. As he stared at the tarnished silver faucet of the sink in front of him, his heightened vision quickly picked out the small symbol on the side of the tap. A snake. _This must have to do with whatever Samsa was talking about. But what does it_ mean _?_

He ran through the possibilities in his head. It was related to Slytherin. That much was obvious, seeing as this was Hogwarts, and everything snake-related here symbolized Slytherin. So what did the greatest of the four founders have to do with the second floor girl's lavatory? Samsa had said that she was _exploring the pipes._ Well, the bathroom was full of pipes. Could there be some sort of secret passage? Looking at the snake on the faucet, he decided to try the obvious.

" **Open,"** he hissed in Parseltongue, and for a second, nothing happened. Then, with a deep rumbling, the sinks began to move. The top lifted off, rising toward the ceiling, while the individual sinks floated outward from their previous configuration. The sink he had been standing in front of, the one with the snake on the faucet, sunk into the floor, a grate sliding over it's top.

Hadrian was awestruck. Revealed behind where the sink had formerly stood, was a tremendous pipe descending into the floor. Moving cautiously to the edge of the gaping cavity, Hadrian gazed into its depths. Even to his eyes, the bottom was difficult to make out. There appeared to be bones strewn about the floor of whatever the chamber was.

Then it struck him. Chamber. How could he have been so _dense_? He had just revealed a part of the castle that had been hidden since its creation. Casting a powerful repelling ward over the entrance to the lavatory, and a disillusionment charm on himself in case the rumours of Slytherin's monster were at all veracious (he wasn't a _Gryffindor,_ after all, despite the Sorting Hat's remarks regarding his courage), Hadrian plunged into the pipe, descending into the Chamber of Secrets.

.

~.~

.

Deep in the bowels of Hogwarts, in an obscure, forgotten room, at the head of a long, glossy black table, the Heir of Slytherin sat observing his followers. He had found this room at the beginning of his fifth year, and for the past year and a half, he had utilized it for training his Knights of Walpurgis. The room with the table (which Tom had conjured) was merely an antechamber where they discussed the theory of the magic that they practiced. The main room was large, and Tom had erected a duelling platform to meet their needs.

He watched in satisfaction as his followers discussed the _Cruciatus_ curse. They had spent the previous hour practicing, using each other as targets. Tom, of course, had remained separate from their practice, criticising and giving advice. It was the standard procedure for training, though usually their spells were more esoteric Dark spells than the Unforgivables. This night, however, was their last meeting before the Christmas holidays, and Tom wanted to practice something memorable.

And it certainly had been memorable, especially for those who were subjected to the curse. They had recovered now, as none of the _Cruciatuses_ were exceptionally strong, but would likely be somewhat sore for a few days. Tom frowned slightly. Only a small number of his Knights had succeeded in casting the curse tonight. That in itself was not unusual, but what _was_ was the fact that Renatus Nott wasn't among them. When he had first been recruited, it quickly became apparent that the Nott heir was no stranger to the Dark Arts. Usually, he succeeded in casting whatever curse or hex they were practicing that day within the hour, and occasionally even on his first or second attempt.

But not this evening. No, tonight Nott was distracted, and his performance was suffering. He had seemed to be rushing through everything for the past few days, growing more and more preoccupied in the days leading up to the last day of classes. Now, the night before the train departed for the holidays, the pureblood was staring off into space, fiddling once again with the small gold pendant which he always wore around his neck.

That was another curious thing about the Nott heir. The strange, Darker taint to his aura had dissipated after that first day, but when Tom was in close proximity to the pureblood, he could sense traces of it emanating from the necklace which Nott never took off. And he was constantly fidgeting with it, even more so during the past few days than was usual for him. His inattentiveness was unacceptable.

Clearing his throat, Tom gained his followers' attention. Immediately, they fell silent, looking to him for instructions like a pack of well-trained dogs. And they were well-trained. Tom had made sure of that.

"You are all dismissed. We shall meet again the Friday evening after classes resume." he stated, and they began to take their leaves.

"Renatus, remain behind," he called as Nott went to exit.

"Yes, my Lord," the pureblood replied quietly, moving to stand at the side of the room until the others had gone.

His Knights thanked the heir of Slytherin as they left, wishing him 'Happy Christmas' or 'a wonderful Yuletide'. None of them wished him happy birthday, for they didn't know.

Once only Nott and he remained in the room, Tom addressed his nervous follower.

"Your execution of the _Cruciatus_ was careless, Renatus." he began, "Your usual standard of work is higher."

Nott seemed to pale at the assertion, but retained his composure nonetheless.

"I apologise. I will work harder in the future." he declared softly.

"I expect you to. I must admit, however, that I find myself curious as to the reason for your distraction."

"My lord?" the pureblood feigned a look of confusion, but Tom saw through it.

"You are less focused than you are ordinarily, and I would like an explanation as to why."

"I suppose I am merely looking forward to the holidays. Surely you too are eager to attending the Gathering?" Nott questioned tactfully, attempting to change the subject from himself to Tom.

"But of course. I will meet you in Hogsmeade on the evening of the nineteenth, correct?" the Slytherin heir questioned in return, letting Nott think that his plan to change topics had succeeded.

"Yes, my Lord. We will portkey from there." the pureblood looked relieved. He reached up to grasp the pendant hanging from his neck, a clearly subconscious action.

"Tell me, Renatus, what is so special about that necklace, that you never remove it?" at this, Nott looked alarmed. He dropped the pendant as if he burned, just then realising that he had been touching it at all.

"Nothing," he replied too quickly. He was definitely hiding something, and _lying_ to cover it up. Though he could use Legimency to find the truth in Nott's mind, he wanted nothing less than complete deference from the pureblood. Tom Riddle would not be deceived by his own follower.

"Do not lie to me, Nott," he whispered coldly, angrily. Drawing his wand, he saw Nott flinch back, hand twitching toward his own wand before he seemed to think better of it.

" _Crucio_ ," Tom hissed, and the curse hit his target squarely in the chest.

Nott dropped to his knees in agony, biting his lip to keep silent. While Tom was grudgingly impressed with the effort, he would not lift the curse until the pureblood was screaming. No matter how small the lie, Tom would not tolerate it. The follower had to learn to respect his leader. To obey his Lord.

Finally, blood leaking from the lip he had bitten through in his effort to keep silent, Nott let out a choked scream. Tom continued to torture him for nearly a minute longer, his screaming echoing off the walls of the stone room. When the halfblood released the curse, Not choked back a sob, trying to stand on legs trembling with aftereffects of the _Cruciatus_.

"It was...a gift," he whispered, his voice hoarse.

Tom was surprised. He had expected something much more...interesting. If that was so, then why hadn't he just said so in the first place? There had to be more. The magic was dark enough for it to be some sort of dark artefact, but somehow Tom thought it unlikely.

"A gift from whom?"

Nott seemed struggle with his answer, "It was given to me by a...friend."

The answer was truthful, Tom could tell, but it didn't explain the traces of magic that had been on the Nott heir at the Welcoming feast. Unless...

"Your friend, or your lover?" Nott's eyes widened, seemingly stunned and bemused by the question.

"I...both," he stuttered, bewilderment evident on his now slightly flushed features. No doubt he was wondering how Tom had known, or _why_ Tome even _wanted_ to know. _Let him be confused,_ thought the halfblood. _I do not need to justify my questions._

"You are dismissed, Renatus. I will see you the evening of the nineteenth." though they shared a room, Nott was likely to be asleep long before Tom retired.

"Thank you, my Lord." Nott's rough reply was spoken quietly as he limped to the door, shooting a suspicious glance over his shoulder.

Contemplating this turn of events, Tom wondered who the Nott heir's lover was. Indubitably not a Hogwarts student, for he would recognise the magic. Whoever it was, they were likely to be at the Gathering, judging by their Darkness and the fact that it was _Nott's_ lover in question. _Such a powerful witch or wizard will make a worthy follower,_ Tom thought. He looked forward to meeting them.


	4. Dominion

Nocturne Opus 27 No. 2 in D Flat Major by Frederic Chopin: www.youtube.com/watch?v=nPErSyk5iHs

**Dominion**

.

~.~

.

" _Curiosity is natural to the soul of man, and interesting objects have a powerful influence on our affections."_

 _-_ Daniel Boone

.

~.~

.

Brushing the grey soot from the fireplace off of his Hogwarts robes, Hadrian stepped out into the clean parlour of his home. His mother was probably lurking somewhere within the manor, and he would find her eventually, but instead of walking out of the parlour and in the direction of her study, the vampire strode in the direction of his piano. It sat quietly off to the side of the room, a constant in Hadrian's otherwise chaotic life. Tension seeped from his shoulders as he seated himself on the bench, his feet reaching out to touch the pedals as he slid back the keyboard cover. Ivory keys glinted in the light, and Hadrian could have cried with relief as his hands found their familiar places on the instrument.

He closed his eyes, letting him exhale slowly, and began to play. Chopin danced through the room, swirling in the air as its minor fifths and soft arpeggios soothed Hadrian's soul. The music was a dialogue; his right hand the waking sun, his left the steady swell of the tide. Cool keys felt like home beneath his fingers, and Hadrian could feel the piano calling out to him, welcoming him back into its embrace.

 _Yes, I missed you too,_ he thought. The notes were waves breaking along the coast; the melody rose with the tide, ebbing and flowing and erasing the footprints in the sand. Hadrian could smell the sea, feel the salty wind tugging at his hair, the spray of salt on his skin as he played. This was what he missed most at Hogwarts; not his freedom, but his music. It was his voice, in a way that words could never be.

The Nocturne ended in shades of blue and green, and Hadrian sat still, his hands resting on the keys, eyes closed, as the last phrase hung, fading, suspended in the air.

He forced himself to rise from the bench, regretfully closing the lid on the piano and smoothing out his robes; they were still covered in soot, and Hadrian could feel the grime against his skin. Deciding that he would prefer to change clothing before attempting to find his mother, the vampire Faded into the shadows and reappeared in his bedroom. With a hiss of apology, he extracted Samsa from where she had been concealed, wrapped around his chest, and laid her down on a corner of his bed.

Hadrian stripped off his cotton robes as he walked into his closet, letting them drop to the floor. Velda, the house-elf, would be delighted to take care of them later. His mother kept the manor in such a clean state that the poor creature was ecstatic at being asked to fulfil even the simplest of tasks. In a familiar gesture, Hadrian pressed his hand to the invisible rune on the back of his neck and let his entire glamour fall, even the standard vampirism concealing bit. He felt Dark magic roll off of him in waves as it adjusted to its newfound freedom.

As he picked out a set of finely woven, deep charcoal grey robes, he felt a million times lighter. He hadn't been able to find a suitable time to drop his glamour in weeks, and the constraining magic had been beginning to take its toll on him. When he went that long as Julian, his magic became more volatile, and hard to keep restrained. At one point he'd thought of just casting extremely high power containing wards around his bed and dropping the glamour there, but with Riddle as a dorm mate, he wouldn't risk it. Riddle was able to sense magic, Hadrian suspected, based on the power that the half-blood exuded himself.

Hadrian had taken to inconspicuously avoiding Riddle, just as he did Dumbledore. But while Dumbledore he avoided due to his horribly oppressive _Light_ power, Riddle he avoided for exactly the opposite reason. Riddle's magic wasn't Light or unpleasant at all. On the contrary, Riddle's magic was extraordinarily _Dark_ , and much _too_ pleasurable. If he was at all near near the heir of Slytherin, Hadrian felt _drawn_ to his power. And so he avoided him like the plague. It wasn't that he didn't trust himself to keep up his expected behaviour around the halfblood, but rather that he didn't trust his _magic_. His magic was constantly trying to reach out to Riddle, and was ridiculously tiring to attempt to subdue. Any extended period of time spent close to the other Parselmouth simply could not be allowed. If anyone would figure out his charade, it would be the arrogant, irritatingly brilliant half-blood, Tom Riddle.

Over the years, Hadrian had gone to great measures to ensure that he was never assigned to projects with the boy. For the assignments where partners were picked by the students, this was never a problem. For projects where the teacher assigned the partners, however, Hadrian often employed minor compulsion charms. The teachers had yet to notice, and even if they did, they would probably assume that the charms were from a student _wanting_ to be paired with Riddle. The vampire took care to phrase the commands for the charms carefully, thinking something more along the lines of _'pick Isabella MacMillan'_ than _'do not select Julian Pearce'_. Besides, who wouldn't want to be paired with Tom Riddle?

The vampire grimaced. Renatus was bringing Riddle to the Gathering, where Hadrian wouldn't be repressing his magic, and he was somewhat apprehensive about what would happen. He _could_ just restrain his magic during the entire event, but there would be enough powerful witches and wizards that would notice the change. Furthermore, he intended to speak to several additional influential figures, and an exceptionally Dark and powerful aura went far in negotiations. He supposed he would just hope that his magic didn't react _too_ enthusiastically.

Adjusting his robes in the mirror, Hadrian chuckled to himself. All this worrying and he'd been home less than ten minutes. Taking one last look at his gloriously _him_ reflection, Hadrian set off in search of Carina. He decided on walking rather than Fading, as he enjoyed the feel of his true body's muscles working. She would be in the library, he knew, though he did give a perfunctory glance into her study as he walked past it.

His mother was always in the library. That was where she spent the time that Hadrian spent sleeping, and the majority of the rest, too. The library was the largest room in the manor. It was even larger than the unused ballroom, and took up most of the first floor. While not quite as large as the Hogwarts Library, theirs was mammoth in its own right, and the books it housed were far more intriguing. Carina had lived in the manor for nearly a century, and the library was home to countless dusty tomes which she had collected over her lifetime. Most of the material was devoted to study of the Dark Arts, but quite a few were on rarer Light spells that had been lost with time. While Light magic was significantly more difficult for a naturally Dark wizard to control than its Neutral or Dark counterparts, it could be achieved with enough concentration and power.

Hadrian reached out with his magic, searching for his mother's magical signature. In the back of the library sat two leather armchairs and a fireplace. This was Carina's preferred location in the library, and it was there that Hadrian found her. She appeared to be lost in thought, sipping from a glass of merlot (which she was fond of) and staring into the flames. She knew he was there, for her vampiric senses would have alerted her when she heard him Floo in.

Sitting in the unoccupied leather armchair, Hadrian relaxed and picked up a book on specialized cutting curses. They sat in companionable silence for nearly an hour, if the vampire's rather accurate perception of time was anything to go by, before Carina spoke.

"I felt your magic earlier, when you released your glamour." she stated, still not looking at Hadrian. He didn't reply, knowing that she wasn't yet finished.

"You _know_ it's unhealthy to go so long without letting yourself rest, don't you?" she queried.

"I do, but the situation was unavoidable." Hadrian replied calmly. He didn't know why she had brought this up, as it wasn't all that unusual an occurrence. "Besides, I have gone longer before."

She looked at him now, and her eyes were concerned. "You're growing stronger, Hadrian. More powerful." she said tentatively, and played nervously with a piece of her silvery hair. "If I didn't know better, I'd assume that you were close to your Inheritance." this caught Hadrian's attention.

"That's impossible. I'm only sixteen. The minimum age for a born vampire to reach their Inheritance at is twenty."

"Yes, well you aren't exactly _normal_ , are you? It's definitely a possibility. My powers started growing exponentially slightly more than two years before my Inheritance," she revealed, "You won't be reaching yours while at Hogwarts. That's the most important part."

Hadrian chuckled. _That_ would be a _disaster_.

"So, why did you have me send you all those books on Salazar Slytherin back in November?" Carina changed the subject, "Suddenly took interest in some family history?" she joked. Slytherin was descended from the some of the earlier Peverells, and Carina never missed an opportunity to tease her adopted son about the fact that with Hadrian's father and grandfather as old as they had been, Slytherin was something of a third cousin.

"Actually, I found the Chamber of Secrets." he deadpanned, and she gaped at him.

"You _what_?"

"Well really, Samsa found it, but she made me figure out how to get in myself." Carina was still staring at him with a mildly gobsmacked expression. "I needed the books because I was trying to figure out what Slytherin's monster was. Turns out that it's a Basilisk. She doesn't have to obey me, since I'm not the heir, but she refrained from eating me on the basis that I'm a Parselmouth and she hasn't had anyone to talk to for centuries. I haven't gotten a chance to go back down there any time this month, though, as I had to be seen studying and doing the ridiculous amounts of homework that they insist on assigning prior to the holidays."

"Isn't there an _actual_ heir of Slytherin in your year?" she questioned when she regained control of her facial features.

"He doesn't know where it is, though he _is_ searching." the vampire replied. Riddle had been on a mad quest to find the Chamber since the beginning of the school year, but so far, his searches had all remained fruitless.

"And if he finds it? What if your little Basilisk friend exposes your identity?"

"She's promised not to reveal my existence."

Despoena, for that was what the Basilisk was named, had agreed not to alert Riddle about another Parselmouth's existence if he _did_ find the Chamber, but if the half-blood directly ordered her to tell him, she would have to obey. Carina didn't have to know that, though. It would only make her worry.

Far more interesting than the Basilisk Hadrian had found in the Chamber was the portrait of Salazar Slytherin himself. The portrait had taken a great interest in his Peverell relative, and though peeved that Hadrian refused his demands to reveal the Chamber's location to his rightful heir, they had had many engaging conversations.

"At least your semester's been interesting, I suppose," Carina laughed.

"Speaking of which, there was a firecall for you earlier. A certain _Renatus Nott_. I told him that you weren't available at the moment, and he proceeded to inquire rather audaciously as to whether I was romantically involved with you." she smiled amusedly.

Hadrian grimaced. Most of the Slytherins Flooed directly out of Slughorn's office, and Renatus must have firecalled him as soon as the pureblood arrived home. It seemed that the vampire would have to break off whatever arrangement they had sooner rather than later. Perhaps at the Gathering. _That_ wouldn't be a pleasant conversation.

"You didn't tell him _yes_ , did you?" that would make the conversation _more_ than slightly unpleasant.

"I told him I was Carina Valavicius and that how I am involved with you is none of his concern." she stated, her eyes twinkling with cruel mirth.

Hadrian buried his face in his hands and groaned.

.

~.~

.

" _Dissendium_ ," Tom whispered, tapping the one-eyed witch statue lightly with his yew wand.

As the hump on her back slowly receded to reveal the secret passageway, he glanced once more at his surroundings. The Professors wouldn't even notice that he was gone. Over the past few days, he had been eating his meals in the kitchens and spending most of his time in the dormitories, so not seeing the half-blood for a few days wouldn't be altogether unusual. Satisfied that the third floor corridor was clear, Tom slipped gracefully down the slide into the dark, cavernous tunnel. The brunette landed softly on his feet, though only spiders were present to hear his landing.

" _Lumos_ ," he murmured, and his wand lit up to reveal the passageway before him.

The underground tunnel was hewn from the hard stone below Hogwarts castle, and the walls were damp and slick with moss. Tom cast water and dirt repellent charms onto his robes, as he didn't want soil them on his long walk to Hogsmeade. With only the meagre funds provided to him by the school for supplies, he had no way of affording suitable dressrobes for an event such as the Gathering. To the Prefect, however, this was only a minor inconvenience. Someone as adept as he in magic had little trouble transfiguring a plain black set of robes into grand, resplendent attire more than sufficient for whatever the occasion.

Tom was dressed in deep violet robes, their shade so dark that they looked completely black unless seen in direct light. Silver buttons stretched from his waist to his neck, where the collar of an immaculate white button-down was visible peeking from the silken fabric. He had left his hair in its usual style; parted on the side, with the slight waves falling neatly away from his face.

As he walked through the dank passageway, the half-blood admitted (if only to himself) that he wasn't entirely sure what to expect. Would many major political figures be in attendance, or was it more covert and hidden influence at work? Either way, Tom would soon have his name known within the Dark political circles. He could be extremely charming when he wanted to be, and he intended to utilise his social proficiency to its fullest extent, acquiring as many followers and contacts as he could. After this Gathering, he would be free to attend on his own, and could begin to amass a group of followers from overseas. He wouldn't have to rely on Nott. He wouldn't have to rely on _anyone_.

Reaching the end of the passageway, Tom carefully lifted the hinged wooden panel that sat in the stone ceiling of the tunnel. He climbed quietly into the cellar of Honeydukes, and observed that a thick layer of dust lay over the floor by the trapdoor. This route out of Hogwarts had obviously remained unused for quite a long time. Tom smirked. Most students wouldn't have thought to ask the house-elves for alternate ways from the castle. But then again, most students didn't even know that there _were_ house-elves in Hogwarts. They were eager to be helpful, though. A simple, polite inquiry, and he had been told of no less than four previously unknown courses out of the Hogwarts grounds.

Standing stationary in the storage room, the Slytherin wondered if the upper level, the _store_ , was empty. It wasn't even past eight o'clock in the evening, and though the sweet-shop was closed, the people who worked here might still be in.

" _Hominum revelio,"_ the detection spell revealed two persons, presumably the owners, in the small living quarters above the shop. They wouldn't be an obstacle.

Nevertheless, Tom's ascent of the rickety stairs from the basement was quiet, and he took care to erase his footprints from the dust. Asimple _Alohomora_ unlocked the front door, and Tom wondered at the logic of some wizards.

 _Why even bother to_ lock the door _if anyone with a wand can open it?_

Hogsmeade was deserted, the inhabitants no doubt sequestered away in their houses. With the rising threat of Grindelwald, people seldom ventured outside alone in the nighttime. Soft snow fell from the dark sky, leaving a powdery blanket of white on the frozen earth. Tom made his way over to the area near the Shrieking Shack, where he had agreed to meet Nott.

The half-blood was ten minutes early, as he had planned. Tardiness was unacceptable, and as the Nott heir had been raised with proper pureblood decorum, Tom knew that he would be punctual. A few minutes before the large clock in the town struck eight, the heir of Slytherin heard footsteps approaching from the direction of the village.

"Good evening, my Lord." Renatus bowed his head in greeting. He wore deep blue taffeta robes that brought out the gold in his chestnut hair.

"And to you, Renatus," Tom acknowledged, "And remember: during the next few days, you must address me using my first name." as much as the name 'Tom' irked him, he knew that it was necessary. In time, the _world_ would know him as 'the Dark Lord', but for now that title belonged to Grindelwald, and the use of it would just raise alarm.

"Of course...Tom," the Nott heir seemed reluctant to say his name, "This Yule's Gathering is in Milan, and we shall be traveling by way of international portkey." with this, he reached into his robes and withdrew a smooth, rectangular pice of silver metal. Presumably the portkey, it was about as large as Nott's hand, and was embossed with intricate swirling designs. A small note was tied to the plate with a black ribbon, and from where he stood, he could see '9:00' written in a loopy scrawl.

"Who makes the portkeys?" Tom questioned.

"Whoever is hosting the Gathering," Nott shrugged. "This one is at Capazzo Manor, so I would assume it to be them."

Tom nodded. The Capazzos were a notoriously Dark Italian family that dated back as far as the Malfoys.

"It activates at eight," the pureblood remarked, "Well, nine in Italy, but you had better hold on soon."

Tom cast a quick _tempus_. He didn't have a watch, and so the spell was of great use. It was a minute to eight. He tucked his wand back into his robes, mourning the fact that he probably wouldn't be able to use it for the next few days. The thought made him uneasy. Being surrounded by so many dangerous wizards and witches, he would like to be able to defend himself. He could use most spells wandlessly, but he had yet to completely eliminate his dependence on a wand completely.

Gripping an edge of the silver portkey firmly, Tom waited for it to activate.

In the not-so-distant village of Hogsmeade, the clock chimed eight o'clock. The sound was hollow and haunting, and the last noise the half-blood heard before he felt a sharp tug behind his naval, and was whisked away into the night.

Tom swayed upon landing, unsteady on his feet, yet refusing to stumble. They had landed in the grand entrance hall of an old, lavish mansion. Tapestries hung on the walls, along with the moving portraits of many dignified-looking witches and wizards. Several other sets of people appeared to have just arrived, and Tom suspected that the portkey arrival times must be staggered, as several more materialized as he was watching. Most of the guests appeared in twos, though there was an occasional group of three or four. Reaching out with his magic, Tom could feel that many of the others in the room were quite powerful. Some of the more powerful of them, and even the less, were giving him evaluating looks, probably sensing his own magic.

"Oh, Tom, I forgot to tell you," came Nott's nervous voice from his right, "We are free to use magic here. Italy doesn't have laws preventing underage magic, and our Traces won't register from inside the wards."

Tom let a pleasant smile come across his lips. "Thank you for informing me, Renatus. That is most fortunate." he was more at ease now, knowing that the use his wand wouldn't alert the Ministry.

"We should probably leave to the ballroom now, to make space for more arrivals." Nott observed, and Tom nodded.

They made their way through palatial double doors, entering a large hall with high ceilings and dark wood floors. The walls were a cream colour, and a chandelier hung over the centre of the room, its candles suspended and kept from dripping by some spell, no doubt. Several couples were dancing to soft music that seemed to issue from the very air, but most of the guests were speaking quietly along the edges of the ballroom. House-elves in embroidered pillowcases offered wine and champagne to the Dark wizards, and even as Tom stood observing, more people migrated into the room from the foyer.

The Nott heir seemed unfazed by the grandeur of the place, so Tom surmised that most of the Gatherings must be held in ridiculously ostentatious locations. In fact, Nott was completely ignoring the setting as a whole, his eyes skimming over the guests distractedly, as if in search of someone in particular. _Probably his lover,_ Tom mused.

Seeming to give up on his search, Renatus turned to the heir of Slytherin. As he was preparing to speak, two wizards approached them from across the ballroom. One was slightly taller than the other, though neither were especially tall nor short. Other than the difference in height, the young men looked remarkably similar. The taller man wore finely tailored light grey robes, and the other black. Both had short, golden-blonde hair and light brown eyes. They were undeniably related, most likely brothers.

"Hello, Renatus, how do you do?" questioned the shorter of the two in a friendly voice.

"Very well, Drystan, I assume that you and Andras are enjoying the Gathering?" the brunette replied, giving a genial smile to both men.

"But of course, though we have only been here for a bit under an hour." answered the taller blonde, Andras.

"I would like to introduce to you Tom Riddle, heir to the line of Slytherin," Renatus seemed to remember his guest, stepping back to allow the half-blood more room. "Tom, these two are Andras and Drystan Morgan."

Introductions were made, and soon the four were talking amiably. They discussed the current state of politics in Britain, and the Light wizards' despotic rule of the Ministry. The Morgan brothers were impressed with Tom's knowledge of wizarding law, Tom observed, though their impeccable pureblood masks would make it difficult for most people to decipher their thoughts. They discussed who would win France's upcoming election, and Tom pointed out that while the leading candidate was officially 'Light', he could be easily manipulated if surrounded by the correct people. Later, they debated whether or not Germany would side with Grindelwald.

"Grindelwald has given an ultimatum of sorts to the German Ministry," Tom pointed out, "If Germany hasn't officially allied with him by the end of the month, the Dark Lord will begin launching attacks on the country."

"Luckily, the Muggle World War hasn't affected magical Germany too severely, but the stress is already high in the country and Minister Emmerich Drescher doesn't want to make such a powerful enemy." Andras added.

"The Minister Drescher is actually here tonight," remarked Renatus. "No doubt he'll have a great deal of people trying to convince him one way or another." Tom was curious. Though he had known of the Dark Lord's threat, he hadn't known that the _Minister was Dark._

"If the Minister is Dark, then why would he even hesitate to side with Grindelwald?" Tom queried, for the first time actually interested in the conversation.

Andras was the one to answer,"Well, I would posit that there are two major possibilities, the first being that the Minister simply doesn't agree with the Dark Lord's views. While Dark, Drescher is likely reluctant to openly target Muggles. Some of Grindelwald's attacks have been so overt that they have threatened to expose the Wizarding World.

"The second possibility I would venture to guess is that he is disinclined to make so many enemies. By allying himself with the Dark Lord, he would be essentially setting himself against not only Britain and France, but also several extremely powerful and influential individuals." he concluded.

"Indeed," agreed Drystan, "In fact, last time I saw Hadrian, he told me that he was drafting some sort of agreement with Germany. His services in exchange for their guarantied refusal of Grindelwald's offer."

Tom was intrigued. How could one man's _'services'_ be worth making an enemy out of the most powerful Dark Lord ever? Well, the most powerful Dark Lord _yet_...

"I almost pity the Minister. _I_ wouldn't want to make an enemy of Hadrian." Andras observed.

Renatus seemed suddenly more interested in the conversation. "Speaking of Hadrian, have either of you seen him?" the pureblood questioned eagerly. "I spoke with him over the Floo network just yesterday, and he said that he would be here."

"I don't think he's arrived yet," replied Andras, "I'm not magic-sensitive, but I can usually feel when he's nearby."

"Andras, a _Muggle_ could feel when he's nearby." his brother quipped. Tom was _extremely_ curious now. _Just how powerful_ is _this Hadrian character?_ he wondered.

"I don't doubt it. Actually, when _you_ first arrived, I almost thought that you were him." Tom realised belatedly that Andras was speaking to him. "Your magic is similar."

"Really?" Tom asked, surprised. "I admit I've never met another with magic quite so..."

"Dark?" Renatus supplied. The heir of Slytherin nodded.

"Well," smiled Drystan, "That'll change soon enough. _In fact_ , I think he might have just arrived."

And then Tom felt it. Emanating from the entrance hall was an aura so powerful, so _Dark_ , that the Slytherin heir's first thought was that _If my magic feels anything like this, no_ wonder _Dumbledore is suspicious of me._ The magic felt almost familiar, though, as if he had encountered it somewhere before...it couldn't be _Nott's lover_ , could it? But Tom's speculations were soon forgotten as his body turned, seemingly involuntarily, in the direction of the grand foyer. When the puissant man entered the ballroom, their eyes locked instantly.

The man was lithe and tall, likely close to Tom's height, and had lustrous black hair that fell around his pale face in tousled, yet elegant, waves. He was dressed in deep green, velvet robes that were tailored around his torso and flared out just below his waist. A heavy black cloak was draped over his shoulders, yet he didn't appear to be uncomfortably warm. But the most impressive aspect of his appearance was the cold, striking green eyes that seemed to see through Tom as easily as if he were some _Hufflepuff_.

The Slytherin heir noticed that he wasn't the only one who's attention had been drawn towards the man upon his entrance. Many of the witches and wizards who had previously been talking had fallen silent, looking towards the imposing figure. The man smiled slightly at some of the observers, and nodded politely to others.

"Good evening. Drystan, Andras, Renatus," he greeted in a resonant and mellifluous voice upon his arrival to their side of the room, "Would you be so kind as to introduce me to your guest?" here he indicated Tom.

"Of course!" Renatus responded slightly too enthusiastically, "Hadrian, this is Tom Riddle, Heir of Slytherin. Tom, I present to you Hadrian Peverell."

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Peverell," Tom greeted smoothly, offering his hand to shake. He was wary of the man. While he had formerly been sceptical that a single individual could hold so much sway over the German Minister, he now understood. _Peverell is powerful,_ Tom grudgingly admitted, _Perhaps even as powerful as I._

"I assure you, the pleasure is mine. And please, call me Hadrian." he took Tom's proffered hand.

As their skin met, a shock seemed to travel up the Slytherin heir's arm and through his body. The reaction was unexpected, but not unpleasant in the slightest. His magic responded fervently, reaching out to meet the man's own. The sensation was unlike anything Tom had ever experienced. Their magic, so similar and yet so inherently different, seemed to undulate, twining together and melding in swirling currents of _Dark_. Meeting Peverell's verdant eyes, Tom was surprised to find not the shock he had been expecting, but rather a stony expression void of any emotion. _Does he not feel it?_ Tom wondered, but his question was quickly answered when the man's magic seemed to disappear altogether, only to return a second later, refusing any contact with Tom's.

He released Peverell's hand. The Slytherin heir was astounded by the profound sense of loss he experienced when the magic withdrew from his own, but quickly remembered himself. What was it Peverell had said? _Please, call me Hadrian._ Right.

"Very well, Hadrian, then I insist you call me Tom." he maintained his composure. If the man insisted upon ignoring whatever had just happened, so would he. And as much as he loathed his name, the half-blood refused to forget even the most negligible of punctilios.

Peverell smiled warmly at him, and Tom was disgruntled to find that he couldn't read the man at all. The smile looked sincere, as if nothing was out of the ordinary, but the half-blood knew otherwise. Magical reactions like that didn't just _happen_. There had to be something to it. Hadrian Peverell was an enigma; one Tom would most definitely be figuring out.

.

~.~

.

The Gathering was everything that it usually was. Champagne was flowing, politics were being discussed, and behind charming, seductive smiles lurked malicious intents and motives. The mind games were at their most deadly, but Hadrian Peverell, who ordinarily _lived_ for these events, was not enjoying himself as he did customarily. No, Hadrian couldn't even concentrate completely on the machinations of the most influential Dark purebloods in Europe, because he was too _bloody preoccupied_ with keeping his magic at bay.

He'd _known_ that his magic would have some sort of bizarre reaction to coming in contact with Riddle's, but this was just ridiculous. The vampire had arrived at the Gathering firmly in control his magic, but when he shook Riddle's hand, he had briefly lost any restraint. He had actually needed to _suppress his magic entirely_ for a moment just to regain his hold on his power. That _never_ happened.

Now, he was stuck making wearisome conversation with the Morgan brothers, Riddle, and Renatus (who was repeatedly shooting him significant looks) as he tried assiduously to repress his wild magic. And he had _business_ to attend to. It was only a few weeks before the German Minister had to choose between allying his country with the Dark Lord or setting themselves against him, and Hadrian needed to talk to the man _tonight_.

Germany's participation in Grindelwald's war would be catastrophic, and Hadrian was hardly prepared to live in a wizarding world run by the murderer of his parents. And if he could finalise an agreement this evening, then he wouldn't have to stay all three nights of the Gathering, and could escape Riddle's presence that much sooner. Well, once he dealt with Renatus... It wasn't as if he could get anything very productive done when his focus was on containing his restive power, in any case.

"Forgive me, gentlemen," he began. It was time to make his escape. "I am afraid that I must excuse myself. It has been a pleasure speaking to you all this evening, but I am afraid I have business that needs attending to." he nodded to each of them in turn, and pulled Renatus aside prior to leaving in search of the Minister.

"I need to speak to you in private, later," the vampire murmured.

"Of course, I'll find you before I go to bed," Renatus grinned suggestively.

Hadrian barely refrained from grimacing, electing instead to only nod and take his leave of the small group. He could feel Riddle's calculating gaze on him as he made his way across the ballroom. More couple were dancing now, and he had to keep to the edges of the hall as he sought his quarry. Many witches and wizards desired his conversation, and the vampire was forced to stop no less than three times to politely discuss everything from his views on the War to whether or not he was arranged to be married. _Honestly,_ he thought in exasperation, _You would think that these people would have something more original to discuss._

When he finally reached the German Minister, the man was deep in debate with a woman Hadrian didn't recognise. Emmerich Drescher was a tall, formidable looking man with piercing dark eyes and grey hair peppered with black around the temples. He was older, appearing around sixty by muggle standards. Of course, he could be anywhere from fifty to ninety, as age was difficult to tell with wizards.

Deciding to make his presence known, Hadrian released his hold on his magic slightly, allowing it to reach out and brush against the Minister's. The man tensed, and excused himself from his conversation with the woman.

"Ah, Mr. Peverell. I admit I have been looking forward to speaking with you." he greeted.

"And I with you, Mr. Drescher," his German was perfect, one of the many things he had Carina to thank for. "How goes your decision on the matter of Grindelwald?"

"Not well, I am afraid. You know as well as I that he is powerful, Peverell."

"That I do, Minister. I also know that your Auror department is adept with their wands," he reminded the man, "You can't afford to make many enemies, Mr. Drescher. What with the current state of the War in the mundane world, Germany need's the support of England and France." the fact that he needed _Hadrian's_ support was left unsaid.

"As simple as you make it sound, Mr. Peverell, the Dark Lord is a force to be reckoned with."

"As is Europe as a whole, Minister." _As am I._

The Minister raised a privacy ward. "Am I to assume that you have a contract drafted?" the Minister forwent the usual subtleties.

"I do. Magically binding." Hadrian withdrew the official document from a pocket within his robes, unshrinking it with cursory flick of a wand. He placed the piece of parchment in the Minister's outstretched hand.

The man squinted his eyes slightly, reading the contract carefully.

"Your assistance in exchange for our refusal of Grindelwald's ultimatum?" he queried skeptically.

"Yes. You know as well as I that I will be an invaluable asset to your forces." the vampire persuaded. His prowess as a dueller was renowned.

"You will be on call until the War ends?"

"I will need one day's notice until mid June, at which time I shall be available almost constantly. However, I will only participate in battle against Grindelwald's forces, not any of your usual Auror difficulties."

"I expect you wish for this to remain confidential?" the Minister asked, and Hadrian knew he had him.

"Of course. Once you sign the contract, you will find yourself unable to speak of its existence with anyone that I have not given you specific permission to discuss it with. I also expect Auror robes, so that I will not stand out among your forces."

Drescher drew a quill from his robe pocket, and hesitantly subscribed the document. Magic glowed white around the man and the vampire as the contract recognised their aggreement.

"You have made the right decision." Hadrian feigned a courteous smile, "It has been a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Drescher." he retrieved the contract from the Minister's hand.

"And with you, Mr. Peverell. Let us both hope that you are correct." the man's face was grim. "I'll owl the robes to you before the end of the month. Merlin knows you'll be using them soon enough."

Hadrian nodded in acknowledgment. When Grindelwald heard of Germany's decision, he was likely to launch an attack immediately. The vampire bid farewell to the Minister, and turned away from the man, looking for one of the house-elves that had been serving champagne. He would need alcohol for what he was about to do. Finding one of the small, wrinkled creatures, he picked up two glasses and looked around him for Renatus.

The pureblood was standing alone, leaning against an empty expanse of cream coloured wall. Upon reaching him, Hadrian wordlessly handed the Nott heir a glass of champagne. He lifted it in thanks, and took a sip. They stood in silence for a few minutes before Renatus spoke.

"So, your room or mine?" Hadrian winced slightly. He wouldn't be staying in _any_ of the rooms that had been made available at Capazzo Manor, if he could help it.

"Neither, Renatus. I mean to end our arrangement." he stated bluntly. The brunette's face fell. He looked on the verge of tears, despite his attempts to uphold his pureblood mask.

"I...understand. I'm going to go find the washroom." the Nott heir excused himself hurriedly.

Hadrian sighed, closing his eyes as he thought. He didn't feel guilty, as he had warned Renatus before they got involved. Besides, it wasn't as if Hadrian was somehow responsible for the pureblood's emotions. No, any sorrow Renatus felt was no one's fault but the pureblood's own. This did complicate things, however. The Nott heir had now become a liability. Hadrian couldn't simply obliviate Renatus' memories of their times together, as others would likely notice a change in his behaviour. _I suppose that I can only hope he continues to wear the portkey_ , he concluded. He couldn't risk the pureblood's memories falling into the wrong hands.

As he reclined against the wall, Hadrian almost didn't notice Tom Riddle approaching him. As it was, though, the vampire's tempestuous magic alerted him to the half-blood's advance when he was still half-way across the room.

"Hadrian," he greeted, leaning against the wall next to him.

"Tom,"

"I see you are close with Renatus," Riddle's eyes flicked to the pendant that was visible peeking from the neckline of Hadrian's robes.

"We have known each other since we were young," the vampire dismissed, tucking the portkey back into his attire. He didn't want to discuss his relationship with _Riddle_ , of all people. He changed the subject, "So, you're the Heir of Slytherin. I would expect that you have found the Chamber of Secrets?" he enjoyed unobtrusively irritating the brunette.

The half-blood remained impassive. "I have been endeavouring to find it. I would imagine the entrance is somewhere magnificent and mysterious,"

Hadrian chuckled quietly. _Magnificent and mysterious indeed._

"You never know," he smirked at Riddle "The best hiding places are those in plain sight."


	5. Fear Me

**Fear Me**

.

~.~

.

" _There is no terror in the bang, only in the anticipation of it."_

-Alfred Hitchcock

.

~.~

.

The first day of classes after the Christmas holidays dawned crisp and pale. Snow had fallen consistently since mid-November, and the grounds of Hogwarts were mantled in delicate layers of white. All of this was invisible from the Slytherin dormitories, however, as the only windows in the dungeons looked out into the depths of the frozen lake, where the Giant Squid lay in hibernation. Tom Riddle, now legally of age by wizarding law, had risen early. He had already finished his morning ablutions as he stood observing his sleeping roommates, clad in only the towel wrapped around his waist.

Since his first year, the Slytherin heir had awoken ahead of the other Slytherins, perhaps a habit cultivated in the orphanage. Regardless of the reason, he didn't trust the others to be awake while he was asleep. They wouldn't curse him, if only out of fear of the repercussions (or in Pearce's case, the lack of ability), but he didn't trust a single one of them.

In his sleep, Renatus reached for a necklace that no longer hung around his neck. Tom smirked. The first night of the Gathering, in a fit of rage, the pureblood had torn the pendant from his neck and thrown it to the floor. When Tom had arrived to wake him up the next morning, he had taken the opportunity to relieve the Nott heir of the piece of jewellery and slipped it into his pocket. If Renatus had been suspicious of Tom, he had said nothing, knowing his place. Now, Tom often caught the pureblood grasping for the necklace in involuntary, subconscious gestures, only to appear startled and guilty at its absence. The Slytherin heir cared little for Nott, but the pendant itself was fascinating.

When he hadn't been searching for the Chamber of Secrets over the holidays, Tom had spent his days studying the necklace. It was a small, golden pendant bearing hundreds of minuscule runic inscriptions, but what was most fascinating was the magic it was imbued with. Now that Tom had met Hadrian Peverell, whom he had confirmed as Nott's (now ex) lover, the magic was quite familiar. What had confused the Slytherin initially was _why_ a trace of Peverell's magic resided within it.

After extensive researching and experimentation with various spells and similar objects, Tom had finally discovered that the necklace was, in fact, a portkey. This in itself was intriguing, because _why had Peverell given Renatus a_ portkey _, of all things?_ But what was infinitely more interesting was the _nature_ of the portkey. Peverell must have constructed it himself, which Tom reluctantly admitted was a great feat, because the portkey wasn't a generic, traditional transportation device. No, _this_ portkey would not bring you to a specific place. It would bring you to a specific person. Or rather, bring a specific person to you.

Why Peverell had given such an object to Nott was a mystery to Tom, as was Peverell himself. Even with Renatus as his lover, the man didn't seem sentimental enough to give such a remarkable gift lightly. No, there was definitely more to this situation than met the eye, and Tom was frustrated beyond reason that he couldn't figure out exactly what it was.

He had researched Peverell extensively, and found little useful information. His most helpful source had been the guests of the Gathering. Peverell had disappeared after the first night, and Tom had had many an opportunity to discuss him with various esteemed witches and wizards while he was busy gathering followers and contacts. Most had seemed slightly reluctant to speak of the enigmatic pureblood, but with Tom's gentle urging, he had gathered multiple peculiar and conflicting accounts of Peverell.

Many spoke of his influence and power, some of his proficiency in duelling, and others of his illustrious family history. Something that the preponderance of people had agreed upon was the fact that Hadrian Peverell was in some way connected to Carina Valavicius. Tom had heard of the great Carina Valavicius, of course, as she had been one of the most important figures in pureblood politics for years now, but what was surprising was that her relationship to Peverell was the object of much scrutiny. While rare was the witch or wizard that had met Valavicius in person, she was said to be extremely young. Some said that Peverell was her brother, others claimed that she was his _mother_ , and even more frequent were the rumours that they had some sort of scandalous love affair. One thing was certain: Hadrian Peverell and Carina Valavicius lived together. And so Tom had begun extensive research regarding Valavicius, in hopes of discovering something about her brother, or son, or lover.

He had even stolen into the headmaster's office late one night to go through the Hogwarts records. When his search for Hadrian Peverell yielded no results, he turned his focus to Carina Valavicius. Her name was as absent from the school records as Peverell's was, much to Tom's disappointment, but she or one of her relatives had, at some point, written to the current headmaster regarding the enrolment of a student. This information had been retrieved with the aid of a simple summoning charm, as the heir of Slytherin called for _'anything related to Carina Valavicius'._

The letter he had found was not dated, and was signed with a mere 'Head of the House of Valavicius', but it had to have been sent _somewhat_ recently, as it was addressed to Headmaster Dippet. So in all likelihood, either Carina Valavicius or Hadrian Peverell had attended Hogwarts. The question was whether either of them attended Hogwarts _now_. Tom thought it unlikely, because (as he had learned from his investigation) Peverell was actually six months younger than Tom, and would therefore be in his year. This was impossible, as Tom would easily recognise anyone with magic like Peverell's.

The Heir of Slytherin frowned. Everything lead to a dead end. Looking around the dormitory, the half-blood sighed. He cast a wandless _Tempus,_ and found the time to be just before six-thirty. Tom smiled in satisfaction. He would have time to search for the Chamber before the rest of Hogwarts awoke, and still get to his classes on time.

Walking over to his four-poster, Tom lifted the many protective charms and curses he had placed over his trunk. He whispered the parseltongue _**'open'**_ which unlocked the bolts that held it closed, and lifted his school robes from its depths. The Slytherin heir donned them hurriedly. With a desultory glance at his sleeping roommates, Tom picked a piece of parchment from its place amongst his orderly possessions. He had drawn the map himself, with the help of a little magic, and he used it to check off areas in which he had already searched for the Chamber.

He had begun his search on the seventh floor, working his way down. During the holidays he had been able to finish through the third floor, and today he would be starting on the second. Closing his trunk, Tom quickly recast the protective enchantments and turned to leave. His bed was the farthest from the door, a fact for which he was grateful. It gave him some semblance of privacy when he was reading more questionable material, as most of the boys didn't bother to look past their own four-posters.

Walking quietly towards the door, so as not to waken his roommates, Tom observed the other Slytherins. Nott and Malfoy slept with their curtains open, but Black and Pearce had theirs drawn. Black's were closed and silenced, probably due to his nightly escapades with his older cousin, Walburga, which the rest of the inhabitants of the dorm pointedly refrained from mentioning. Pearce, on the other hand, likely had _his_ closed out of fear of his dorm mates cursing him. It was unwarranted, though, for Pearce was so below their notice that no one would be bothered to curse him at all.

As Tom was sweeping from the room, he detected something sparkling in his peripheral vision. Turning his head toward the bathroom, he saw a clear phial glinting in the half-light, protruding from the wastebasket in the loo. A phial which had most definitely not been there when he had showered this morning.

Suspiciously, Tom entered the bathroom and carefully retrieved the bottle from its resting place. It appeared to have been used to hold some sort of potion. The half-blood gave it a cautious sniff, and deduced that it was probably a blood replenishing potion, due to its acidic scent and the red residue remaining in the phial. But who had needed a blood replenishing potion, and why had it appeared during the time it took Tom to dress? He looked accusingly at the empty phial. It was possible that the Slytherin heir could have simply overlooked the container, and that it had been there since yesterday...yes, that was far more likely. But the question remained of who had required it. Black, perhaps, what with his somewhat masochistic tendencies...Tom would rather not think of the pureblood's incestuous relationship, though. He resolved to forget about the incident entirely, and move on with his plans. He _had_ to find the Chamber sooner or later.

~.~

The Slytherin's discovery of the Chamber of Secrets turned out to be far sooner than he had anticipated, and he was that much more ecstatic for it. What flummoxed him, however, was its location. He had checked the second floor girl's lavatory simply obligatorily, as he had long ago resolved to never skip a room. Tom had been more than astounded to find the small etching on the faucet, and even more surprised when a whispered _**'open'**_ revealed an enormous (and as far as the half-blood could tell, bottomless) chasm.

And he had found it. After all this hunting, the researching he had done on Slytherin's favourite locations in the castle and places that might hold some sentimental value, Tom had found the illustrious Chamber of Secrets in the middle of a girl's restroom on the second floor. He allowed himself a laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of it all. It was then that he remembered a few words, a sentence spoken to him _weeks_ ago, by the conundrum that was Hadrian Peverell.

You never know; the best hiding places are those in plain sight.

He'd thought nothing of it at the time. Peverell was constantly speaking in riddles, and Tom had dismissed that particular statement as an unimportant speculation. But was it possible that the pureblood had somehow known of this? No, surely not. Even if he had at some point been to Hogwarts, he wouldn't have been able to speak the parseltongue needed to reveal the Chamber.

With that thought in mind, Tom circled the entrance. It appeared to be some sort of pipe, although it _was_ over a meter in diameter. The heir of Slytherin debated whether or not he should explore it further now. Seven o'clock had yet to pass, and the other students of Hogwarts would no doubt be lazing about in their beds until the absolute last minute before classes, which would begin at nine. Tom was unlikely to encounter any others. Casting precautionary repelling wards in the direction of the bathroom's entrance, the heir of Slytherin plummeted into the Chamber.

The dark stone pipe continued on for some time, twisting and turning in myriad directions. Tom could see smaller pipes branching off from the one through which he slid, the one which dropped lower and lower beneath the castle. Finally, the pipe ended and Tom shot out of the end only to find himself sprawled on the cold, dank stone floor of an enormous tunnel. He picked himself up with as much dignity as he could muster, given the situation, and looked at the space around him.

" _Lumos_ ," he whispered, as visibility was virtually nonexistent in the dark of the passageway.

The tunnel was carved from stone, and polished smooth with magic. The air was moist, and Tom speculated that perhaps he was beneath the lake. What with the steeply sloping pipe he had descended from, he was likely far below even the dungeons, so the idea was definitely plausible.

Lighted wand in hand, the heir of Slytherin proceeded along the passageway. The winding tunnel seemed to continue on for eternity, and Tom followed its veering path with growing excitement. When he finally came to a solid wall, his heart was beating quickly in his chest, wild with anticipation. Detailed carvings on the wall depicted two great serpents, their eyes set with shining green emeralds.

" _ **Open,"**_ he hissed, and the serpents seemed to come alive as they retreated back and the wall split in two, the pieces sliding smoothly away to reveal a great chamber.

Eerie greenish light illuminated two lines of tall columns rising from deep pools of water on either side of the Chamber. Around the pillars, more carved serpents were entwined. Between the rows of serpents, a raised platform of floor was covered with glossy, black bricks, and high above him, the ceiling was lost in shadow. Walking along the centre of the chamber, Tom revelled in his success. After centuries during which the Chamber had been lost to myth and mystery, he, Tom Marvolo Riddle, had uncovered the Chamber of Secrets at last.

And it was magnificent. Against the back wall of the Chamber stood a statue of Salazar Slytherin himself, his long beard falling in wild curls which seemed to ripple in the dim light. Approaching the sculpture, Tom wondered wondered where the fabled monster was. It would be some sort of snake, no doubt, and likely bound to the line of Slytherin. Whatever it was, Slytherin's heir would come to no harm from it. Besides, he was hardly defenceless.

" _ **I, Tom Marvolo Riddle, Heir to the noble line of Salazar Slytherin, call forth the monster of the Chamber of Secrets,"**_ he spoke in a low hiss, not entirely sure what to expect.

With a faint rumbling, the immense stone visage of the great founder began to change, the mouth widening impossibly. Tom drew his wand, just in case, as he could sense something shifting deep within the darkness it revealed. Soon, the thing became identifiable as a great serpent, as it slithered forth from its ancient master's jaws. With a start, Tom recognised the snake as a Basilisk. He clamped his eyes firmly shut.

" _ **You may look on me, young master, as my gaze can do you no harm,"**_ a feminine hiss spoke from directly in front of Tom. She must have emerged entirely, now. Cautiously, he opened his eyes, but kept them averted from the enormous snake that had appeared in front of him.

" _ **Are you bound to obey me?"**_ he questioned, his wand still trained on the creature.

" _ **I am,"**_

" _ **Then I command you to lower your second eyelids."**_ he wouldn't risk the possibility of being killed.

" _ **It is done, though I am incapable of causing you harm."**_ Tom hesitantly raised his eyes to meet the large, yellow ones of the Basilisk. They were obscured with the milky film that was the second eyelid. The creature itself was probably near to fifty feet long, a deep green in colour, with glistening scales. She was exquisite.

" _ **What is your name, great queen of serpents?"**_ he questioned. He could command her all he wanted, but snakes were proud, devious creatures. Perhaps she would have no choice but to follow the heir of Slytherin's commands, but she might be considerably less helpful if she so desired. And so he would flatter her, and gain her favour.

" _ **I am called Despoena, young master."**_

" _ **A fitting name for one so glorious."**_ he complemented. She swelled with pride.

" _ **You are too kind, young master."**_ she thanked. _Women; compliment them and they are yours._ It certainly made them easier to manipulate, though Tom was fairly sure that _this_ one knew exactly what he was doing.

" _ **Only to those as beautiful as you, Despoena."**_ he praised, then continued onto more pressing matters, _**"Do you have access to the entire school?"**_

" _ **I do. My great creator made me pipes by which I can navigate the castle, so that I may find the impure ones."**_

A predatory smirk stretched across Tom's face. The mudbloods wouldn't know what hit them.

.

~.~

.

Hadrian lounged languorously on his four-poster, laying back against his pillows with a book levitating in front of him. The deep green curtains were drawn closed, secured with an undetectable sticking charm. Casting spells in their undetectable forms had long ago become habitual for Hadrian, as his inept mask was incapable of even the smallest achievements of magic. Undetectable silencing, repelling, and containing wards were some of his most frequently cast spells whilst attending school.

Currently, his dorm mates were studying in the common room, with the exception of Riddle. Because fate had decided to make Hadrian's life as difficult as possible, he half-blood had entered the dormitory just moments ago, and proceeded to sit down on his bed, _the bed adjacent to Hadrian's_ , and read. His position was remarkably similar to the vampire's, not that he knew it. Hadrian could see it, though.

Only last week, the vampire had developed a spell that allowed him to see through his curtains, but to remain hidden from those outside. A sort of two-way mirror effect. The spell made life infinitely easier, and he berated himself for not having invented it sooner. As it was, Hadrian was now perfectly capable of seeing Riddle slumped (though he would certainly never admit to doing something so _plebeian_ ) on his bed in a manner quite akin to the one he himself sat in.

The idea of being similar to Riddle was disconcerting, and Hadrian sat up straighter. He looked determinedly back to his book. Just because the heir of Slytherin felt the need to invade the dormitory didn't mean that Hadrian would allow himself to be distracted. The volume he was currently reading was a fascinating text on the ancient wizarding societies of Southeast Asia. As many of the countries had been separated from each other by their island locations, the witches and wizards of the area had been the first to invent brooms for means of travel...

And then Riddle's magic spiked slightly, and Hadrian's intent concentration was broken. _Damn Riddle._ Ever since the Gathering, ever since he had _truly tasted_ the half-blood's power for the first time, Hadrian had been more...susceptible to Riddle's magic. Whereas before he had felt drawn to the wizard, now it was constantly a fierce battle to keep his distance from the Slytherin heir. And the _magic!_ Hadrian seemed to be so attuned to Riddle's power that he could practically _feel his moods._ Lately, the half-blood had been frustrated.

Hadrian smirked. The vampire hadn't dared to return to the Chamber since Riddle's discovery, and he missed his conversations with both the Basilisk and the portrait of the great founder. Intelligent conversation was difficult to come by at Hogwarts, especially when one couldn't speak to anyone. Obviously, neither of them had spoken of Hadrian to Riddle, a fact that the vampire found both relieving and amusing. For all that Salazar had groused about Hadrian's presence and the fact that he refused to reveal the Chamber's location to the 'rightful heir', it would appear that the portrait had developed a certain fondness for his distant cousin.

Hadrian wondered what the founder thought of the latest developments at Hogwarts. After Riddle had found the Chamber of Secrets, he had wasted no time, and immediately sicked Despoena on the mudbloods, thus continuing Salazar's noble work. So far, five mudbloods had been petrified, but none had died. Riddle was growing anxious, now that the Easter holidays were approaching and no deaths had occurred. The attacks were becoming less subtle now, taking place in broad daylight more often than not. Not that Hadrian could really _blame_ the half-blood for that. Though unlikely, if any of the mudbloods had actually _seen_ the giant snake, Riddle would quickly become a suspect upon their revivals, what with him being a Parselmouth.

And so Riddle was becoming progressively more disquieted, and spikes in his magic were occurring more and more frequently. And Hadrian couldn't get anything done, so distracted was he by the Slytherin heir's power. It was just so _dark_. So _tempting_. And right now, it was...excited? _That_ was different. Glancing over at Riddle's bed, Hadrian found that he was still reading. _What could be so exciting about a book?_ The vampire wondered. Focusing on the title, Hadrian found the volume to be one on soul magic.

This in itself was intriguing, as soul magic was an extraordinarily dark branch of magic, the study of which had been illegal in Britain since the advent of the light-run Ministry. Riddle must have procured that particular book from one of his followers, many of whom often gave gifts to the heir of Slytherin in attempts to curry favour. What was more interesting than the subject matter, however, was the elation that was causing the usually inscrutable wizard's magic to spike. _It must be something significant, to excite Riddle into such a thoroughly delighted expression_ , Hadrian mused as he observed Riddle's somewhat sinister smile.

Hadrian conceded that he knew little of soul magic, though for vampires it was a somewhat inconsequential field of study. After all, vampires were already immortal, and the primary use of soul magic was to achieve immortality.

Then it struck him. _That_ was why Riddle was excited. He had discovered some method of _becoming immortal_. But what method? Hadrian recalled Carina telling him that soul magic was extremely dangerous, at some point, but the vampire didn't doubt that Riddle could achieve anything he put his mind to. He would have to look into this, to see what the heir of Slytherin was planning. He would have his mother send him several books on soul magic, so that he could research likely rituals and whatnot.

Hadrian grimaced, admonishing himself for that train of thought. He shouldn't be paying so much attention to Riddle. It didn't _matter_ what he was doing. It didn't _matter_ if he decided to preform some ghastly ritual on himself or split his soul or _anything_ , because Hadrian shouldn't be focusing on the half-blood. He should be focusing on Grindelwald, on the _War_ , not on Tom Riddle, whom he had spent far too much time contemplating as of late. No, Hadrian had more urgent matters to ponder.

Thinking of which, the vampire pulled a white parchment envelope from his pocket. His mother had passed it to him last night, immediately after it arrived from Germany. While Hadrian was at school, all mail addressed to him arrived at the manor, as he could hardly accept owls in the Great Hall at breakfast each morning. This letter, from Minister Drescher, was alerting him to a rumoured attack this very afternoon in the small wizarding town of Kouzelník. Hadrian would have to go, of course, even if the rumour turned out to be false. This had happened four times in the last three months since Germany had refused to support Grindelwald, though only two of the alerts had ended up being legitimate.

In any case, when Hadrian's presence was requested, he made it a point to be at the Ministry as soon as possible. While the contract stated that he would need an entire day's notice prior to when his services were required, two of the alerts had come just hours before the attacks. And Hadrian would go, if he could, because he was honestly devoted to fighting in this war against the Dark Lord. Getting out of classes was never difficult. The vampire would simply approach Professor Slughorn, complain about feeling ill, and the Professor would enthusiastically suggest that he rest in his dormitory, so eager was the plump man to be rid of him.

Fortunately, today was a Saturday, and Hadrian could easily disappear. His German auror robes were folded at the foot of his bed, ready for when he would make his departure. Sighing, the vampire closed his book and set it aside. He should be in Germany within the hour.

A faint rustling startled him out of his thoughts, and he looked over to see Riddle standing from his bed. The half-blood raised his arms over his head, stretching, and Hadrian couldn't help but admire the Slytherin heir. He truly was a fine specimen of a wizard, with his dark, nearly black hair, deep indigo eyes, and his _body_. Hadrian could think of quite a few things he would like to do to that body, but those would have to wait. Probably indefinitely. Tom Riddle was too dangerous for Hadrian to mess with, and regardless of how attractive the Slytherin was, Hadrian refused to become involved with him.

Riddle placed the book he had been reading in his trunk, casting his usual wards to discourage thievery or snooping, and left the room. Hadrian scowled. He had no doubt that the wards were practically impossible to bypass, even to one as advanced as the vampire. Riddle was nothing if not paranoid.

Not one to let a fortunate opportunity go to waste, Hadrian unstuck his curtains and cast an undetectable repelling ward on the door to the dormitory. Now he wouldn't be interrupted. Pressing the rune on his neck, Hadrian allowed his glamour to fall, while still keeping a tight hold on his magic. Now that at least his _body_ was back to normal, he set about changing into his auror attire. Running upwards from his waist, a row of buttons adorned each side of Hadrian's chest, and finished in a collar. The lightweight grey robes fell to his knees, but the front was left open for more manoeuvrability. Under the robes, Hadrian wore darker grey trousers tucked into supple leather boots.

He had to admire the Germans for their practicality. While _British_ auror robes were ridiculous, draping things that would be a hindrance in battle, the German ones were comfortable and fitted, and wouldn't get in the way.

Hadrian folded his discarded school clothing by hand, and placed it in the main compartment of his trunk. Allowing his fangs to grow to their natural size and shape, the vampire quickly cut open his finger and smeared the blood onto the side of the chest before the cut had a chance to heal. The blood disappeared, sinking into the surface of the wood, and as the enchantments on the trunk recognised him, a drawer appeared, the knob protruding from the front of the chest. He pulled the drawer open, and removed his real wands from the impossibly existing space.

Strapping the wands into holsters on his wrists, Hadrian smiled widely. This was going to be fun.

~.~

The atrium of the German Ministry of Magic was a large, circular, domed room with fireplaces spaced evenly along the stone walls. Having recently undergone renovations, the Ministry building was one of the most physically and magically secure structures in all of wizarding Europe. Layers upon layers of wards ensured that the establishment was impregnable, even to Grindelwald's forces.

It was into the shadow of one of the fireplaces in this room that Hadrian Faded, his hair glamoured auburn and his eyes a bright hazel. His materialisation was lost amidst the melee of people crowding the atrium, and he strode forward purposefully, turning left down a hallway which he knew led to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

To anyone watching, he was just another auror reporting to the head of his department. The vampire had chosen to disguise himself differently each time, as he wanted to remain unknown; a face in the crowd. With nearly two hundred aurors working for the German Ministry, remaining anonymous wasn't difficult. This way, no matter how he duelled, any attention would be insignificant, as he would be unrecognisable.

Turning a corner, Hadrian came to the large room in which the Ministry trained new auror recruits. It was here that the aurors had been instructed to meet in order to be briefed for the upcoming attack. Already, many wizards and several witches were gathered, and Hadrian had no trouble blending into the crowd.

Hadrian waited several minutes for the head of the auror office to arrive, during which time men and women in grey robes trickled in. It appeared to only be a small portion of the entire auror force, with only twenty or twenty-five of the best fighters in attendance. Logical, Hadrian supposed, as the town that might fall under attack was quite small. His attention was drawn to the front of the room as the Head Auror took his place. Auror Kalff was a short, harsh man whose eyes were shadowed with the grief of War. He was intimidating, despite his height, and subscribed to the theory that anyone who flourished their wand while casting was either a fool or dead.

"I assume you all know where we are going," Kalff began, never one for greetings. "If you have not been to Kouzelník before, a memory has been provided in the pensieve to the right of the door, for apparition reference." Hadrian glanced towards the door. Indeed, there was a silver basin swirling with a single memory.

"You are to cast Disillusionment Charms on yourselves before you Disapparate, and if you are incapable of silent apparition, then you must apparate to a location far enough outside of the town that you will not be heard."

So they were trying to appear undetected. Did they expect Grindelwald to have spies in the village? It was a possibility, surely.

"If our source is reliable, you will be arriving thirty minutes before the attack is scheduled. You are to remain in the town, invisible, for two hours, even if there is no sign of the Dark Lord's forces. If Grindelwald's men _do_ appear, wait for my signal before you make yourselves known." the man looked at each of them in turn, making eye contact.

"Don't hold back. They won't be merciful, and we can't afford to lose." Kalff looked weary, his expression grim, "Kill if you must."

With that, the aurors were dismissed, and Hadrian walked over to where several others were waiting for a chance to use the pensieve. They took turns viewing the memory, slipping into the gaseous silvery substance in pairs of two. When Hadrian's turn came, he went alongside a middle-aged blonde woman.

The village of Kouzelník was small and charming, one of the few exclusively wizarding towns in Germany. The wooden buildings looked old, yet well cared for, a mixture of shops and residences. Having seen enough, Hadrian withdrew from the memory, giving a nod to the blonde as he left. With a tap of his wand, the vampire felt the odd sensation of an egg being cracked over his head as the Disillusionment Charm took hold.

He walked swiftly into the designated apparition room (the rest of the Ministry had anti-apparition wards) and apparated silently into the village.

Winter lingered in Kouzelník, present in the scattered patches of snow and the chill of the air. Families bustled about the town, witches levitating crates of groceries while children played with their parents' wands, all oblivious to the potential danger they were in. Hadrian leaned against the wall of what appeared to be a cafe, motionless despite his confidence that his Disillusionment Charm was more than adequate.

Minutes passed without disturbance, and the vampire grew progressively more anxious for any sign of Grindelwald's men. He was actually _looking forward_ to the attack, as his magic was eager to be let loose. Hadrian intended to do exactly that, provided of course that Grindelwald didn't show up himself. He wouldn't want the Dark Lord to feel his power.

Suddenly, Hadrian felt a slight change in the area's ambient magic as anti-apparition wards went up. The attack had begun. Most of the town's inhabitants seemed to have remained unaware, but several had paused in their activities and were standing still, as if observing. It was then that the first scream was heard. It was a woman's scream, high-pitched and terrified. The more intelligent of the townspeople made for the buildings, while the more foolish drew their wands or remained where they were.

All at once, the Dark Lord's forces descended upon the villagers, their distinctive purple robes swishing as the opening salvo of curses flew from their wands. Hadrian grinned maliciously, watching the clouds above the town for Kalff's signal. After what felt like hours, but was only seconds, green sparks rained down from the sky, and Hadrian was off.

He released his hold on the Disillusionment Charm as he sent an Entrail-Expelling Curse flying towards a nondescript man in purple. It connected solidly, the man collapsing with a shriek of pain. Other aurors stepped from their hiding places, and Grindelwald's men finally seemed to realise that they had company.

Hadrian flung curses indiscriminately, his only care that he didn't hit a fellow auror or one of the civilians. Though they were outnumbered, the aurors felled their enemies with abandon, and soon their numbers were even. Dodging away from a Blood-Boiling curse, Hadrian laughed giddily. It had been a while since he had had so much fun. A wand in each hand, the vampire loosed several of the nastier curses he had been waiting to try, spinning all the while to avoid being hit. He disarmed and bound several of the purple-clad men, but killed more often than not.

" _Lacero!"_ someone shouted, but Hadrian didn't hear them.

So concentrated was he on the enemies before him that he failed to see the blood-red arc of a cutting curse flying through the air from behind him. The curse connected with his right shoulder, ripping a large gash through his robes and deep into the skin and muscle below.

Growling, Hadrian spun around. His entire right arm was practically useless, and pain that would be debilitating were he anyone else coursed through his body. Locating the source of the spell, the vampire allowed his magic to take care of his assailant, wrapping dark tendrils around the brown-haired man's neck and slowly choking him. The wizard's face began to change colour, morphing from tan to blue as he died of asphyxiation. When Hadrian felt his target's heart cease to beat, he released the hold on his neck, and the man crumpled to the ground in a lifeless heap. The vampire smirked in satisfaction.

Hadrian returned to the battle with his right arm hanging limply by his side, casting exclusively with his left hand. As it was, the aurors had lost very few of their forces, while the Dark Lord's army was all but annihilated. The last of the men in purple were attempting to escape, their efforts hindered by new anti-apparition wards that the aurors had erected when the others had fallen.

Eventually, the last of the men in purple were either killed or captured, and the battle was finished. Hadrian looked around to see other aurors standing panting around him. They were all in a similar state; grey robes dark with blood and multiple lacerations marring their skin, but wearing satisfied expressions nonetheless. Walking into the shadow of a building, Hadrian Faded directly back into the confines of his bed in Hogwarts. The others could deal with the bodies and the aftermath of the attack. Right now, Hadrian just needed to heal. He spelled off the blood soaked auror uniform, rolling onto his stomach so that his shoulder was in the open air. It would be fine by morning; one of the perks of being a vampire.

As he buried this face in his pillow, an exhausted but genuine smile blossomed on Hadrian's lips. Victory was sweet.


	6. Revelations

  
  


**Revelations**

.

~.~

.

" _Espionage, for the most part, involves finding a person who knows something or has something that you can induce them secretly to give to you. That almost always involves a betrayal of trust."_

-Aldrich Ames

.

~.~

.

Hogwarts was abnormally quiet, though many of its inhabitants had remained at the castle for the Easter holidays. As it was, the busiest part of the entire castle was the library, where fifth and seventh years were studying for OWLs and NEWTs, their faces buried deep in books and notes. The usually sparsely occupied tables were crowded with students of all houses, though the blue and bronze colours of Ravenclaw seemed to be the most prevalent.

Tom Riddle was one of the two sixth year Slytherins remaining at Hogwarts. The other was Malfoy, who followed the half-blood around like some vexatious pet. Luckily, the blonde had a habit of sleeping in, and Tom was often able to escape the dormitory before he awoke. The heir of Slytherin had been spending most of his time in the library researching, as he wouldn't risk releasing the Basilisk when so few Slytherins had remained for the Easter holidays. It would eliminate most of the suspects.

Currently, Tom was browsing through the Restricted Section, with express permission from his head of house, of course. Horace Slughorn was easily manipulated, his greed for power and talent making the Heir of Slytherin one of his favourite students. So when Tom had approached him asking for permission to access the Restricted Section of the library in his fourth year, the potions master had been all too eager to sign a slip that gave the 'quiet, albeit brilliant' boy leave to use the exclusive books for the rest of his stay at Hogwarts.

Currently, Tom was searching for more information on Horcruxes, though his efforts thus far proved to have been in vain. Aside from the single grimoire on soul magic which Orion Black had gifted to him, the half-blood had found no mention of that particular variety of soul magic whatsoever. Soul magic itself was exceedingly difficult to procure information about. Perhaps he would have to ask Slughorn...the professor was definitely credulous enough to believe that Tom was _merely curious._

But of course Tom wasn't merely curious. No, he had already made up his mind to split his soul. The only question was how many times. Because attaining immortality, complete immortality, was a goal that Tom vowed to accomplish. He refused to die like a normal human, like a _muggle_. He was a wizard, with magic, and

And the heir of Slytherin _needed_ more information on Horcruxes. The chapter of the single volume he possessed on soul magic made no mention of what would happen if one were to create _multiple_ Horcruxes, and Tom was actually beginning to wonder if in fact no one had ever attempted it. But if his plans evolved as he hoped, _Tom_ would create multiple Horcruxes.

He had thought about the merits of several different numbers, and the strongest numbers magically seemed to be either three or seven. Three was more powerful than seven, but seven Horcruxes would surely make Tom invincible. Of course, he wouldn't have the chance to create even _one_ Horcrux if Despoena didn't manage to kill a student soon.

Abandoning his search for the time being, Tom left the library, intent on making use of the room of requirement. The heir of Slytherin vowed to speak to Salazar's portrait about Horcruxes at some point. The Founder was likely to have some insight regarding the forbidden art, and even if he hadn't personally encountered anyone who had made more than one. _Slytherin was a truly brilliant wizard,_ Tom mused, thinking on the portrait in the Chamber. He had always respected the idea of his ancestor, but upon actually _meeting_ him, the half-blood's admiration for the man reached new heights.

When he had first opened the Chamber, Tom had searched high and low for the library that he suspected to be hidden somewhere within the great Founder's lair. Imagine his surprise upon finding the small, albeit lavishly furnished room containing Salazar's portrait. The little parlour held a single velvet-upholstered armchair which seemed strangely immaculate for supposedly having sat in desuetude for centuries. Tom accredited the room's pristine condition to magic.

Slytherin seemed most amused when his heir voiced these thoughts, neither confirming or repudiating his theory. Tom had asked whether there was, in fact, any sort of library in the Chamber, only for Salazar to explain that within his portrait all the knowledge that he had collected during his long life, and that he would be more helpful than a book ever could. And so he had been. Over the past few months, Tom had learned more from his forbear than he had in all his six years of classes.

There was one suspicious thing that Tom couldn't figure out about the Founder, though. When Tom had appeared before his portrait, Salazar had expressed that he was pleased to see that his heir had _finally arrived_. It was evident that the great wizard had known that Tom was searching for the Chamber, though he refused to explain how. The half-blood _knew_ that he couldn't communicate with other portraits in the school, as the portrait had been created specifically for the Chamber of Secrets, a part of the castle that _wasn't supposed to exist_.

As Tom made his way from the third floor to the seventh, he encountered several Gryffindors. Not for the first time, he mourned the fact that the Room of Requirement was so close to the lions' common room. He feigned affable smiles at the few students he passed in the hallways, greeting them all jovially. The Gryffindors were by far his least favourite house, but with a bit of effort, even they had taken a liking to Tom. 'The nice Slytherin'. _If only they knew_. Tom smirked darkly, coming to a halt in the empty hallway.

Before him was an empty expanse of stone wall, behind him a tapestry depicting Barnabas the Barmy's attempt to teach trolls ballet. Turning from the wall and closing his eyes in concentration, Tom began to pace.

 _I need a secure room;_ he thought, _a room that cannot be accessed from the outside. I need a room that no one can exit, by way of door, or window, or by way of portkey, without my express permission._

Instructions for the room needed to be specific, and the heir of Slytherin had spent a significant amount of time during the past few weeks deciding upon the wording that he would be using for this. Completing his third pass in front of the wall, Tom opened his eyes. The formerly blank wall was no longer empty, as a heavy looking wooden door had appeared before the heir of Slytherin.

He walked forward and pulled open the door, inspecting the wards which the room had created upon his request. He could recognise complex locking enchantments and anti-portkey wards, but the magic which had created them was as old as the castle itself, and Tom didn't think that he could dismantle them if he tried. They were perfect. No one would be entering or leaving this room anytime soon.

The room itself was a large, circular chamber with a high, vaulting ceiling and thick stone walls. Turning to face the door by which he entered, Tom found that the portal had faded into the stone of the wall it had rested in. The windowless, and now doorless, room would have been dark had it not been for the fact that the ceiling of the chamber seemed to be translucent, daylight shining through the plaster dome.

Curiously, Tom drew his wand and proceeded to shoot a powerful Bombarda towards the ceiling. Just as it was about to impact the seemingly fragile cupola, it was absorbed into a ward. The heir of Slytherin smiled predatorily. The Room had really outdone itself.

Standing in the centre of the room, Tom wished that there were shadows to conceal himself within. Disillusionment charms always left him feeling exposed. Immediately, the room began to shift to reflect his desires. The rotunda morphed into a rectangular room, the domed ceiling becoming one of arches, not unlike that of the Great Hall. Though light continued to trickle the roof, the corners of the room were now shrouded in darkness.

Tom stepped into one of the provided shadows, and withdrew Nott's necklace from where it was stored in his pocket. It was time to find out what Hadrian Peverell was hiding.

.

~.~

.

The skies were dark and cloudy, their stormy greys and blacks evidence of the storm that was currently wreaking havoc on London. The city's streets were less crowded than usual, as most of the muggles had elected to stay inside, and out of the hostile weather. The people that walked along the pavements did so hurriedly, some carrying umbrellas and others not, but all eager to escape the frigid torrents that fell from the heavens. They were even more heedless of the world around them than was their wont, and Hadrian was thankful for it.

The vampire strolled casually amongst the muggles, appearing for all the world to be relaxed, were it not for the alert light in his viridescent eyes. The muggles didn't notice the oddly dressed man in their midst, though; their eyes remained focused on the streets ahead of them, or else on the ground.

As he observed the humans, Hadrian relished the feel of raindrops splashing down on his pale skin. Were he not so thirsty, he would have been content to just enjoy the tempestuous weather.

As it was, Hadrian was _agonisingly thirsty_ , and refused to ingest even one more dose of Blood Substituting Potion, for the time being. Muggle blood wasn't the finest, but it was substantially better than those detestable potions, and would be ambrosia to Hadrian's currently deprived palate. The vampire endured the abhorrent concoctions during his time at Hogwarts out of practicality, but refused to drink anything but the lifeblood of humans whilst he had the opportunity.

Hadrian had been home from school for two days now, and had yet to feed. Usually, he took a small dose of Blood Substituting Potion every day, and so he was quite famished.

In the melee of people thronging the wet pavement, it would be all too easy to abduct someone for a much needed meal. Notice-me-not charms hid his long scarlet robes from curious gazes, but as he observed the muggles, Hadrian wondered if perhaps the charms were unnecessary. Muggles were so oblivious.

After several minutes of observation, Hadrian finally found a suitable target. The woman was young, just a few years older than Hadrian himself, probably. She was wearing a blue, knee-length skirt and a square shouldered jacket, but she seemed to be cold, as she was without an umbrella, her blonde hair dripping water as she hurried down the pavement.

Hadrian picked up his pace, following her. She was alone, thankfully, and didn't notice the vampire approaching her from behind. As they were nearing an alleyway, Hadrian finally caught up to her, grasping her arm gently and guiding the startled woman into the space between the buildings. She seemed to panic, then, realising that she was being assaulted.

"What are you- let me go!" she demanded, attempting to free herself from Hadrian's hold on her arm. Her fearful blue eyes met his ravenous green ones, and she stilled in his grasp, seemingly caught off guard by his youth.

"Don't worry. I'm not going to hurt you." he lied easily. He wasn't in the mood for an unwilling meal. Well, not _too_ unwilling.

She opened her mouth, likely with the intention of asking a question or shouting at him again, but her words were never heard.

For as she was preparing to speak, Hadrian gently pushed her up against the wall of the alley. She stiffened immediately, the frightened light returning to her eyes. No doubt she was under the impression that he intended to 'violate' her or something equally heinous. It was always the same with women. She stared up at him dubiously. He stared back.

"You know, if you're a rapist, you are certainly an incompetent one." she stated bluntly after a moment's determined staring.

Hadrian couldn't help but laugh. Frank women were rare in this chauvinistic society, and he appreciated her candidness. He had long ago realised that Muggles were hardly inferior; some of them were infinitely amusing.

"I suppose it's a good thing that I'm not planning on raping you, then." he countered, grinning slightly.

"Well, if you don't mind me asking," she drawled, her tone sardonic, "Why exactly _have_ you chosen to abduct me, if not to take advantage of my womanly assets?" she quirked an eyebrow.

Hadrian chuckled again. He liked this one. Perhaps he would let her live. She was still tense, Hadrian could tell, but she did a remarkable job of hiding it. If muggles went to Hogwarts, she would be a Slytherin. Or perhaps a Gryffindor. She was certainly bold enough.

"Since you ask so nicely, I just might tell you." he replied, and he was actually considering it. He may as well tell her the truth. If he decided to let her live, he'd just obliviate her.

"My intentions towards you aren't completely innocent, I must admit. You see, I am a vampire, and I plan on drinking your blood." he deadpanned.

She stared at him blankly."You're insane, aren't you?" she sighed defeatedly. "It's always the insane ones that take an interest in me..." she mumbled under her breath, as if to herself.

"I might be a bit insane, yes, but I believe that our time for talking is over now." Hadrian let his fangs grow to their natural length and grinned at her. Her eyes widened comically.

Without waiting for a scream (or perhaps a witty remark, considering what he had witnessed of the muggle woman so far), Hadrian leaned in and kissed her.

She melted into his touch, becoming pliant in his arms. It was a gift that vampires had. They were simply irresistible, when they wanted to be. And right now, Hadrian wanted to be.

She kissed him back deeply, her delicate hands sliding up to the back of his neck while Hadrian's found her slim waist. The rain had soaked through both of their clothing, and though Hadrian personally preferred men, he could appreciate the woman's feminine figure.

She removed her hands from his neck, then, and attempted to unbutton the shirt he was wearing under his robes. He let her. While he was above fornicating with his prey, the vampire had to admit that it had been a while for him. If the girl, in her fervent, delirious state, wanted to unbutton his shirt, far be it from Hadrian to stop her.

As she ran her hands over his pale chest, the vampire pulled away from the kiss slightly. He planted light kisses across her jaw, biting her skin lightly when it suited him. Raising a hand to cradle her face, Hadrian tilted the woman's head away from him slightly, giving himself better access to her neck.

He sucked softly on her pulse point, relishing the feel of blood rushing through the veins immediately under her skin. She gasped in response to his ministrations, her fingers finding their way into his saturated black hair. Deciding that they had spent enough time osculating, the vampire exposed his fangs and _finally_ bit into her neck.

So lost was he in the euphoria of warm blood flowing into his mouth that he completely failed to notice the way the woman leaned into his touch, nor the telltale tug from somewhere behind his navel indicating the activation of a portkey.

.

~.~

.

As Tom caressed the innocuous looking portkey with his magic, he could feel it activating, calling out to its counterpart. The half-blood allowed himself a small moment of complacence; he had known that activating it with his magic would work _in theory_ , but _actually performing_ the task was an attestation to his intellectual prowess.

Everything was gong according to his plan. That is, of course, until the object of his constant fascination actually _arrived_. To say that Tom was shocked would be a flagrant understatement.

There, standing in the centre of the room, was Hadrian Peverell. The fact that he had landed without stumbling was impressive, and bespoke frequent travel by way of portkey. That wasn't at all unexpected, though.

What _was_ unexpected was the fact that Peverell was drenched in water, and locked in a passionate embrace with an equally waterlogged blonde woman sporting _muggle clothing_. Tom almost regretted summoning Peverell, but he was even more curious now than he had been previously.

A few seconds passed before Peverell seemed to realise that he was, in fact, not wherever he had been before. His body stiffened, and in a movement too fast for Tom's eyes to detect, the Peverell heir's head snapped up so that he was looking directly at Tom over the muggle woman's shoulder. It was then that the heir of Slytherin noticed that Peverell's lips were bloodied, a trail of crimson leaking towards his chin.

Tom's blood ran cold. He had known that Peverell was hiding something, but...

"Vampire?" he all but whispered, suddenly glad he had the foresight to already be holding his wand.

Peverell shoved the woman away from him, and her limp form fell to the floor, presumably dead. The vampire backed away from Tom, baring his fangs in a seemingly involuntary reaction to a threat. Peverell seemed to catch himself, then, and his expression became a perfectly inscrutable one. Tom could still feel his magic, though, and the strong, dark, _intoxicating_ power that the vampire exuded was thrumming with panic.

If Tom didn't know better, he wouldn't have been able to tell that Peverell was anything other than angry. The heir of Slytherin watched as burning verdant orbs flicked from Tom's face to the necklace still clasped in his hand, and grew angrier still.

"What do you want, Riddle?" he asked, his voice cold and menacing. Tom stepped from his hiding place amongst the shadows. Obviously, it proved useless in the presence of a vampire.

"I wanted to find what it was that you were hiding." he stated honestly, "It would appear that I have succeeded."

"Some knowledge is dangerous, you know." the vampire commented. But it wasn't a comment; it was a threat.

"And some is powerful," he responded. He would not be cowed by Peverell. Tom had the upper hand, here.

The heir of Slytherin watched curiously as Peverell pushed up his left sleeve, their eyes remaining locked all the while. Peverell's left wrist was adorned with two silver bracelets. Tom observed as the vampire took hold of the one situated farther up his arm and briefly closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he seemed more alarmed than before.

"Where are we?" he demanded, and it was the that Tom realised that he had just attempted to activate a portkey.

"It doesn't matter. Suffice to say you won't be leaving here without answering my questions."

Peverell's look of indignation grew. He spun around, looking for an exit, then abruptly pulled not one, but _two_ wands from his robes and proceeded to cast multiple high level diagnostic spells, inspecting the wards.

"What magic is this?" he whispered, almost to himself, but Tom heard him anyway.

"Ancient magic. Magic that you will not be able to bypass without my consent."

It must have been the wrong thing to say, for abruptly, spells were flying at Tom in alarmingly quick succession.

He shielded himself hurriedly, alarmed at the most recent turn of events. He had planned to convince Peverell to become one of his followers. If convincing didn't work, he would have then threatened and coerced, but _this was not supposed to happen!_

He returned the vampire's attack zealously, matching the impressive chain of spells with a volley of his own. Soon, they were duelling in earnest, spells flying in every direction, and growing progressively deadlier as time wore on.

Did Peverell honestly think to defeat him? It seemed the only reasonable explanation for his instigation of this duel. But Tom couldn't be defeated. He wouldn't be defeated. Especially not by Peverell.

But as the confrontation continued, Tom realised with a start that he was slowly but surely being packed into a corner. Quite literally. He cast an assortment of entirely deadly, perilous, and very much illegal curses speeding toward his opponent, but his efforts were in vain. Soon, his back touched the stone wall and Peverell's wand was hovering in front of his nose.

"Lower the wards," the vampire commanded. When Tom didn't deign to respond, he decided to use threats.

"Lower the wards or I will kill you."

Tom didn't doubt the veracity of his promise, as he knew that Peverell was quite capable of killing, but he would be damned if he would surrender to his adversary.

Gathering his magic to him, Tom attacked, ending the momentary impasse. He wrapped his magic tightly around Peverell, intending to crush, to stifle, to smother. The vampire reacted immediately, gasping and retreating from the heir of Slytherin. After what appeared to be a violent internal struggle, he collapsed to his knees, his magic frantically attempting to free itself from the constraint that was Tom Riddle.

Tom strove to maintain his hold on Peverell's magic, but it was difficult. The inherent darkness _called_ to Tom, _pleaded_ to him, and he had to utilise every bit of his not paltry amount of self control to keep himself from falling prey to its seduction. With as much dignity as he could muster in his current predicament, the heir of Slytherin approached Peverell where he was now kneeling on the stone floor. Bowing to Tom, as he should be.

He crouched down in front of the vampire, lowering himself so that he could see his face. Wet black hair obscured any view Tom might otherwise have had of Peverell's expression, so he reached out, raising the vampire's pale face with a finger under his chin. The sensation that he had felt when he'd first shook hands with the Peverell heir was even more bewildering and powerful now, and Tom realised with a start that Peverell had been suppressing his magic.

Tom met the vampire's defiant green gaze evenly, daring him to speak some contumacious comment. He suspected that Peverell was the type to attempt to remain silent in defeat, though, unfortunately.

"Surrender." Tom ordered. He wouldn't release his hold on his captive's magic until he had heard it from Peverell's own lips.

But then, in a display of mirth most unexpected and unwelcome, the vampire smiled. Suddenly, Tom was being pushed backwards, _physically_ , so that he lay sprawling on the stone floor, Peverell holding him in place. In his surprise, the half-blood lost his hold on Peverell's magic, and then it was _he_ that was being held in place by invisible restraints when magic replaced the vampire's hands where they had been pressing down on Tom's wrists.

As Peverell hovered over him, the heir of Slytherin could do nothing but look up helplessly at the victorious smirk on his opponent's face.

Peverell leaned down so that his lips brushed Tom's ear, and Tom could feel the warmth of the vampire's breath as he spoke.

"Don't presume to know me, Tom." he whispered, and Tom repressed the urge to shiver.

And then Peverell was gone, walking toward one of the dark corners of the Room of Requirement. He turned and grinned at Tom, and then promptly disappeared into the shadows.

Tom was astounded. _Peverell duelled like that when he could have just escaped at any time?_

Looking over towards the centre of the chamber, he noted that the room had disposed of the dead woman's body. The body Peverell had _been sucking the blood from_ upon his arrival.

Hadrian Peverell was a vampire. Tom actually laughed at the absurdity of it all. Who would have guessed that _that_ was the secret Peverell was hiding? _But why hide his vampirism?_ Tom wondered. While it was true that some wizards were prejudiced towards them, in the upper echelons of dark society, vampires were regarded highly. Tom sighed in confusion.

The heir of Slytherin was more curious now than he had been _before_ he had summoned the vampire in the _first place_. But of one thing Tom was certain:

He had to have him.


	7. Mutually Assured Destruction

Piano Sonata No. 14 in C-sharp minor "Quasi una fantasia", Op. 27, No. 2, by Ludwig van Beethoven: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vQVeaIHWWck

* * *

 

**Mutually Assured Destruction**

.

~.~

.

" _Heck, what's a little extortion among friends?"_

-Bill Watterson

.

~.~

.

Fading into the shadowy entrance hall of his manor, Hadrian supported himself by leaning against one of the cool walls. He tried to make sense of what had happened, but in his state of shock, rational thought was hardly forthcoming. He glared accusingly at the golden portkey he had purloined back from Riddle while the half-blood had been distracted with his proximity.

 _How could it have come to this?_ Hadrian slowly slid down the wall, until he was sitting on the cold floor, his knees drawn up to his chest. His greatest secret was in jeopardy. The secret he had worked so diligently to protect; revealed by a silly little necklace. _At least Riddle doesn't know about Julian_ , he attempted to console himself. If worst came to worst, Hadrian could simply vanish, becoming Julian full time. The mere thought of it was enough to cause him to shudder. He despised his mask, and almost thought that he would rather die than live for eternity as _Julian_.

Hadrian let his head fall forward, burying his face in the rain-saturated folds of his robes before he climbed to his feet, stumbling in the direction of the parlour. His piano, ever faithful, stood in the corner as if waiting for him. Waiting; always waiting.

He collapsed onto the bench, lifting the fallboard and settling his damp hands atop the smooth ivory keys. They were cold to the touch; familiar, comforting.

He let his dejection pour from him, unshed tears coalescing in the form of quavers and minims and semibreves and _Beethoven_. The music wept for him, his piano shedding the tears that he couldn't. Weakness was not an option, not now. The notes weren't a perfect chain of pearls; Hadrian played desperately, passionately, numbly. He couldn't tell where he ended and the piano began; the music was a part of him, indistinguishable from his magic and from his emotions. He played as though he could somehow drown out his thoughts, lose them in the midst of the familiar motions.

After what could have been minutes or hours or days, a gentle hand alighted on his shoulder, and Hadrian was startled from his wallowing. He flinched back from the touch on instinct, his hands slamming down upon the keys to produce a discordant, jarring sound.

As Hadrian returned to himself, he realised that the appendage belonged to none other than Carina. She wore casual robes, and a concerned expression. His mother must have heard the sounds of his distress; he often expressed himself in such a way.

She didn't say anything, her bright eyes silently lending support and inquiring as to what was wrong. Hadrian met her caring gaze and dropped his mental shields, calling the memory of his encounter with Riddle to the forefront of his thoughts, and wordlessly urged Carina to enter his mind. She did so gently, as she did whenever they communicated using Legimency, expressionless as she viewed his recollection.

When she had finished, she helped Hadrian to his feet and enveloped him in a motherly embrace. He sagged in her arms, allowing himself to be comforted by the only person he truly cared for. For all that he had been through in his short life, sometimes Hadrian still felt like a child. And Carina was always there for him. _Always_.

She held him for long minutes, patient and loving as only a mother can be, before gently pulling away from the piano, lowering the the fallboard and guiding him up the stairs and toward his bedroom. When they came to his door, she summoned the house elf.

"Velda!" she called softly.

The little creature popped into being with a curtsy. "What is it that Velda can be doing for Mistress Carina today?" she squeaked excitedly.

"Velda, draw a bath for Hadrian. When that is done, please prepare a pot of tea and bring it to the library." Carina was always polite and kind to the elf, and as a result, Velda was probably the most loyal house-elf in Britain.

"Right away, Mistress!" Hadrian watched her enthusiasm with a blank face, still feeling slightly dazed and numb to the proceedings around him.

As Velda popped away to complete her tasks, Carina turned to Hadrian.

"Take a bath, and change into dry robes." she ordered gently, "I'll be waiting for you in the library when you have finished, so that we may talk."

Hadrian nodded silently. His mother pulled him into another hug. He rested his chin atop her head, marvelling at how recently it had been _he_ who was shorter.

"It'll be alright, Hadrian," she whispered into his shoulder, "I promise."

With that, they broke apart, and Hadrian entered his room while his mother retreated to the library. He removed his robes mechanically, uncaring of where the wet clothing fell to the floor. Once he stood completely nude, he made his way to the washroom adjoining his sleeping chambers. The floor was polished marble, the walls a warm cream colour. It appeared that Velda had already drawn the bath, as the copper, claw footed tub was full and steaming.

Hadrian stepped into the tub carefully, and lowered himself slowly into the scalding water, the warmth soothing to his cool skin. Closing his eyes, the vampire breathed in deeply. He needed to cease this unavailing self-pity _immediately_ , and pull himself together. _He needed to devise a plan_.

As he scrubbed his body and washed his hair, Hadrian thought of everything he knew about Tom Riddle. The Slytherin heir was brilliant and handsome, and used both qualities to achieve his goals, much as Hadrian himself did. The vampire had a fair amount of material with which he could blackmail Riddle, and he would definitely use it, if need be.

Because after years of observing him from the shadows, Hadrian _knew_ Riddle. Well, he knew him as well as Riddle could be known. And he knew that the half-blood wouldn't treat Hadrian's secret lightly. He wouldn't tell anyone until it suited him. The heir of Slytherin was much more likely to attempt use it as a means of controlling Hadrian, of forcing the vampire into becoming a follower. Of forcing him to become a servant.

But Hadrian wouldn't have it. The entire reason he had his secrets in the first place was so that he could escape the servitude that he would face by allying himself with Grindelwald. He wouldn't become a puppet for a new Dark Lord simply to avoid the current one.

No, as Riddle waited for the opportune moment to use his newfound knowledge regarding Hadrian, the vampire would compile his own information to use against the half-blood. And when the time was right, he would let Riddle know exactly how Hadrian Peverell reacted to extortion.

Until then, he trusted Riddle (or rather, he trusted his understanding of Riddle's character) to keep his secret. Unlike Renatus, the half-blood was capable of defending himself, and Hadrian doubted that Riddle would ever be captured by Grindelwald.

Which brought him to another complication: Renatus. Hadrian berated himself for not being observant enough to notice when the pureblood had ceased wearing the portkey. He thought it unlikely that the Nott heir had _willingly_ given Riddle the necklace, but if he had been forced, Renatus would have contacted Hadrian. Well, he definitely would have contacted Hadrian _before_ they had...discontinued their relationship.

Renatus Nott was not unintelligent, though. While not a genius like Riddle, Nott's intellect was part of what had attracted Hadrian to him initially, and the pureblood had _known_ that the portkey was crucial. Too crucial to simply abandon out of anger at Hadrian. So Riddle must have somehow stolen it.

No matter. The method by which the Slytherin heir had procured the portkey mattered little. What was important was that Hadrian return the portkey to his former lover. With several additions. Such as anti-theft wards. And enchantments that made it useless to anyone other than Renatus. Perhaps he would simply place some sort of Permanent Sticking Charm on the clasp. That would certainly have the desired effect.

Hadrian chuckled exasperatedly to himself, relieved to find that he was feeling much calmer. In fact...

The vampire cupped a small amount of water in his hands. Examining it closely, he could detect a slight golden sheen to the liquid. A careful sniff confirmed his suspicions: Calming Draught had been added to the bathwater. Carina knew him well enough to know that he would never have agreed to ingest one upon his arrival. Hadrian smiled fondly. Potions weren't nearly as fast-acting or effective when they were absorbed through the skin, but the mild calming effect was likely exactly what the vampire needed.

He had overreacted. He would make it through this, one way or another. Tom Riddle wouldn't ruin his life. The half-blood wouldn't even _try anything_ in the near future, and Hadrian had time to find the perfect method of ensuring that his greatest secret remained unknown to Grindelwald.

With a satisfied sigh, the vampire leaned back against the edge of the tub, and basked in the warmth of the water and the delicate scent of the Calming Draught. Now that he was aware of it, Hadrian wondered how he could ever have overlooked the somewhat characteristic signs of the potion. _I was quite shaken,_ he mused. The confrontation with Riddle had been disquieting.

He had been forced to kill the muggle girl, when he usually didn't condone mindless acts of murder, and then the _duel_ had been, well, unlike any duel Hadrian had ever participated in. Of which there were many. When Riddle had taken hold of his magic, Hadrian had been sure that he wouldn't be able to remain conscious. The vampire was no stranger to being cut off from his magic; _he spent half of his time living with his power blocked entirely,_ but somehow Riddle had managed to affect him.

When he was near Riddle, his Dark was exceptionally difficult to control, and when he had found himself in the grips of the half-blood's own magic, his own _Dark magic_ , Hadrian had panicked. He was wary- no, he was _terrified_ , of what would happen were he to completely loose his hold on his magic in the presence of Riddle. When the Slytherin heir's magic had been wrapped around him, contact between their power had been inexorable, and it had been all Hadrian could do to retain some semblance of control over his Dark.

Had he not been so entirely focused on keeping his magic from doing whatever it wanted to do, he would probably have been able to escape the clutches of Riddle's containment quite easily, but that had been impossible. Also, by appearing as if he was completely defeated, he had been able to get close enough to the half-blood to obtain Renatus's necklace.

Yes, everything would work out somehow. Hadrian frowned. That had to be the Calming Draught speaking. Heaving a sigh, the vampire climbed from the bath, his skin pink from the heat. He wandlessly spelled himself dry, and exited the bathroom. With a flick of his wrist, Hadrian summoned a set of casual black robes from his closet.

He relished the feel of the black fabric as he slipped them on, the warm cotton soft against his flushed skin. The Easter holidays were only a week long, and he would be returning to Hogwarts in a matter of days. He would miss the luxury of hot baths and soft robes whilst he was Julian. Hey, at least Riddle hadn't attempted to summon him using the portkey when the vampire was at _Hogwarts_. Though really, Hadrian would rather the Slytherin have found out about the fact that he was Julian than about his vampirism.

He smiled sardonically. It was too late now for such thoughts. Regret wouldn't get him anywhere. He opened the door to his room and left in the direction of the his mother.

When he arrived at the small sitting area in the back of the library, Hadrian took a seat in his customary leather armchair. Carina looked up from the book she had been reading, and proceeded to discard the tome in favour of staring at Hadrian.

He met her eyes evenly.

"Feeling better?" she queried.

"I am. I think I have a plan for how to deal with Riddle." he replied. She nodded. She wouldn't as him what he planned to do, he knew. She would offer him help if he asked for it, but otherwise, Carina was content to let her son make his own decisions.

"Good," she said after a few moments. "Hadrian, there's something I need to tell you."

Hadrian was surprised. He had assumed that she had called him to the library in order to discuss only his encounter with Riddle and its repercussions, but now it appeared differently.

"What is it?" he asked. Judging by the tightness around her eyes, it was something serious. She had seemed more stressed than usual during the entirety of the Easter holidays thus far, but Hadrian hadn't questioned it. If it was important, she would tell him. Now, it appeared as though that was precisely what she was doing.

"Grindelwald had found the connection between you and me," she began cautiously. Hadrian's eyes widened in trepidation. "Well, he's discovered that I am hiding the son of Cassius and Anastasia Peverell, though he doesn't know them by those names.

"That means that you are still safe, at the moment. Your surname will not give you away." Hadrian didn't know whether he should be relieved or horrified.

" _You're_ not," he stated. At Carina's bewildered look, he elaborated. "You're not safe. I might be, for now, but what about you?"

"I've been fortifying the wards around the manor for weeks now. They won't be able to break through them without a team of expert Ward-Breakers and a vampire."

Somehow, this didn't do much to assuage Hadrian's fears.

"How long?" he asked. Would they have to go on the run? Move to some obscure location where they couldn't be followed?

"I'd say we have until the end of the coming summer. After that, we'll have to leave." looking at her, Hadrian noticed that suddenly, Carina looked old. Her wise, jaded eyes belied the apparent youth of her face. "There's a vampire colony in Bulgaria. I've stayed with them in the past, and they would welcome us with open arms."

"Would they see me as a potential threat, because of what I am?"

"No, my son. Any vampire would be honoured to meet you. To help you remain free from Grindelwald. Besides, the Bulgarian vampires will assist _any_ wandering vampire, regardless of their status."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, and Hadrian couldn't help but feel that he was responsible for the entire ordeal Carina had to go through.

"I'm sorry," he offered quietly, and the silvery-haired vampire heard him despite his low volume. She quirked an eyebrow in inquiry. "I'm sorry that I've made your life complicated. If it weren't for me, you wouldn't even have to worry about the Dark Lord. It's all my fault."

Carina's countenance grew stony. "Hadrian Peverell, don't you _dare_ say that again. This is not your fault. You cannot help who you were born, nor should you feel as though it is somehow a disadvantage. You are _strong_ , Hadrian. You are powerful, and perhaps someday it will be _you_ to defeat Lord Grindelwald.

"If it weren't for you, I would still have to worry about Grindelwald. I am a powerful entity in my own right, and the Dark Lord would have attempted to recruit me sooner or later." she sighed, the fire of her tirade slowly dimming.

"Hadrian, the years I've shared with you have been the best years of my life." she looked at him with honesty in her eyes. Hadrian felt a sudden tightness in his chest, and insisted to himself that this wasn't the time to be sentimental. "No matter what happens, I will never regret adopting you. If I were to die today, I would do so happy with my life."

"Thank you," Hadrian whispered. Somehow it felt appropriate to thank her, but he couldn't really vocalise a more eloquent response. His mother seemed to understand, and offered him a small smile.

.

~.~

.

Tom stared emotionlessly into the lifeless brown eyes of the Ravenclaw girl. What was her name? He couldn't remember, but it hardly mattered. She was dead now; his first kill, _finally_. Dried tear tracks were visible underneath her glasses, and Tom surmised that she must have been hiding in the lavatory, crying. Idiot mudblood. With the attacks that had been so frequent the past few months, most of the Muggle-born students had taken to traveling in packs. It wouldn't save them, but at least it was somewhat intelligent. One would think that a Ravenclaw would know better than to go wandering off alone.

The heir of Slytherin looked down at the inert form of the dead girl. Her pigtails were splayed out on the tiled floor below her, and her mouth was slightly open; frozen in an expression of shock. Tom smirked. She would be his first Horcrux.

But he needed to act immediately. He had the necessary materials prepared in the Chamber, as he had been waiting with bated breath for Despoena to finally be successful in one of the commanded murders. Now the time had come.

Tom slipped into the open pipe with practiced ease, sealing the entrance behind him with a simple _**'close',**_ as he slid deep underneath the castle and downwards to the Chamber of Secrets. He shot forth from the pipe, and landed on his feet, immediately starting towards Salazar's study at a quick pace.

When he arrived in the small room, he greeted Salazar hurriedly and set about setting up the ritual. He gathered a small bag of sand, a number of beeswax candles, an athame, and his small black diary from where the had been sitting in the corner of the room.

He exited the small chamber, carrying the supplies into the main room with Salazar's statue and the pillars. In front of his ancestor's statue, there was enough open floor space to perform the ritual. He emptied the bag of sand into a pile in the centre of the designated area, and used his wand to spell it into a ring. One by one, he placed the candles around the circumference of the circle, taking care to check that they were evenly spaced.

Tom disrobed methodically, discarding his robe and unbuttoning his shirt. His trousers and undergarments followed, all dropped unceremoniously outside of the circle. When he had finished undressing, Slytherin's heir stepped into the middle of the circle, clutching his diary in his left hand and the athame in his right.

He deposited the small, leather-bound book on the floor before him. He had taken to journaling at a young age, before he had even known of Hogwarts. It helped him keep his thoughts in order, sort out his priorities, and as he didn't have close confidants, it was the diary that kept his secrets. It was only right that the book would become his first Horcrux.

Tom took a deep breath, bracing himself for what he was about to do. The splitting of the soul was said to be unimaginably painful, and some didn't even survive the process. Tom would, though. He was determined. With a steady hand, the heir of Slytherin raised the athame and began cutting small runes into the flesh over his heart. Uruz for endurance; Mannaz for the intelligence of the soul; Ihwaz for the mysteries of life and death, and for _immortality_.

When the three runes were complete, Tom placed the athame outside of the circle. Only he and the vessel for his Horcrux could be within it's perimeter. With a shaking voice, he began to incant the ancient words of the ritual. As he chanted, the latent magic in the air seemed to come to life, sparking and swirling around the circle, and building in intensity. When the incantation was complete, Tom could only steel himself and wait for the magic of the ritual to take hold.

He didn't have to wait long. A few seconds after he had fallen silent, pain began to pool in his chest. It escalated in severity, and Tom bit his lip to keep from screaming. As it continued to intensify, however, the Slytherin heir soon lost control and a scream was wrenched from his throat. He could feel his soul tearing, and it was horrible. It was worse than the most powerful Cruciatus, and as he writhed in pain on the cold, unforgiving, stone floor, Tom swore that he would never make another Horcrux.

Finally, after what could have been minutes, or hours, or days, or _years_ , the excruciating pain receded, and Tom was left lying on his back in the centre of the circle. Tears slid silently down his cheeks, and every inch of him hurt. While the burning pain was gone, the ritual had left behind a dull ache in his very bones.

The heir of Slytherin stared up at the shadowy ceiling, and inspected exactly how he felt. His research had indicated that if one could survive the ritual, they should suffer no other ill effects than the initial pain. Examining his mind, body, and what he could sense of his soul, Tom was glad to find that nothing had changed too much. His emotions didn't seem to be altered, his thoughts were still clear and coherent, and he had as much control of his magic as he had had before.

With a sigh of relief, the half-blood propped himself up on his elbows, ignoring the protestation of his aching muscles. His diary sat innocently where he had placed it earlier, looking entirely unchanged. Tom reached out to it with his magic, and he could immediately feel that the ritual had been successful. A piece of his soul was now inside the little black book.

He collapsed back to his lying position on the floor, wincing, but content in his success. He would need to add extensive protective enchantments to the book, and he even had an idea of a certain spell he could develop to give the diary potential to become a copy of himself, but for now, he was tired, and felt like sleeping. Mustering as much energy as he could, Tom struggled to his feet and picked up his Horcrux. He walked unsteadily to Salazar's study, and fell into the lone chair. He was asleep before the greatest of the four Founders could so much as blink.

.

~.~

.

The dormitory was absolutely silent, save for the gentle sounds of breathing. The sixth-year Slytherin boys were all asleep, except for one. Hadrian lay awake in the confines of his curtained four-poster, waiting patiently for midnight. Generally, the other Slytherins went to sleep between ten and eleven, but Hadrian would wait until twelve for good measure. He couldn't afford to be seen roaming about the castle after curfew; it would draw too much attention.

In the dark, visibility was low even with Hadrian's vampiric sight. He could barely make out the coiled form of Samsa sleeping at the foot of his bed, and the boxy shapes of two parcels sitting on his lap. One large and one small, both were wrapped neatly in beige paper and secured with brown ribbon. The smaller one contained Renatus's portkey, which had been modified so that once he put it on, only Hadrian would be able to remove it.

The larger package was heavy and rectangular, and obviously a book. This particular text had taken a fair bit of work to procure, but Hadrian thought it would be worth it, if only to see the look on Riddle's face when he opened it. The book had originally been published in France in the fifteen hundreds, and banned within the century. This English edition had been hand copied at some point between the time that the original was published and the time it was banned, and to Hadrian's knowledge, was the only of its kind in existence.

Soul magic was so obscure that a book entirely on Horcruxes had been near impossible to find, but Hadrian had connections, and the Lutrova family's only daughter was quite infatuated with the young vampire. The Lutrovas were known for their collection of dark artefacts and their library, and so after one afternoon in Moscow flirting, the book had been Hadrian's.

The book was in remarkable condition for its age, and was actually a quite fascinating read. Hadrian could understand why Riddle had wanted to create a Horcrux. Or perhaps more than one Horcrux, judging by the way the heir of Slytherin had continued to read the single book on Soul magic that he possessed even after the creation of his first.

It had been two days since the fourth year Ravenclaw girl had been found dead in a cubicle of the second floor girl's lavatory, and two days since Tom Riddle had returned to the dormitory with a small black book concealed in his robes. Hadrian had sensed it immediately. The book was imbued with a great deal of dark magic, _Riddle's dark magic_ , so it was sort of hard to miss.

Only yesterday, Headmaster Dippet had announced that unless the culprit was apprehended, Hogwarts would be closing. No doubt Riddle had panicked at that. Hadrian couldn't blame him. _Orphanages were miserable,_ and Hadrian wouldn't ever return to his if he could help it. The same probably held true for Riddle, as just last night, the half-blood had framed the half-giant second year, Hagrid, as being the true perpetrator of the murder. The oaf had been expelled within the hour.

The alarm he had set for midnight chimed quietly, and Hadrian quietly rose from his bed and gathered the packages in his arms. Clasping a thick cloak around his currently frail shoulders, the vampire cast undetectable sleeping charms on his dorm mates, and slipped out of the dormitory.

He dismantled the alerting wards around the entrance to the common room with ease, amused that Slughorn thought he could catch a Slytherin out of bed by such simple means. Did he not realise that this was the house of the cunning? No decent Slytherin would be fooled by something so simple as alerting wards.

Hadrian supposed that he could simply Fade up to the owlery, but though improbable, if someone else was up in the West Tower, suddenly appearing would be even more suspicious than wandering the school at night. Anyway, at this time of night, even the Prefects were in bed and no one was around to see him traversing the corridors.

By the time he reached the tower where the owlery was located, the vampire's weak body was straining to clamber up the steps. Finally, he found himself in the malodorous little room that was the owlery, panting from the climb. Straw was strewn about the floor, but it did little to absorb the oder of bird droppings that permeated the air.

"Nyx!" he called his owl. Carina had sent her over from the manor yesterday, as Hadrian didn't trust the school owls to carry out their assigned task effectually.

A soft hoot resounded in the stone room, followed by the rustling of feathers as a pitch black owl flew from one of the spaces in the walls to land on Hadrian's left arm. Named after the Greek goddess of night, Nyx's name suited her perfectly. Her soft black feathers were as dark as Hadrian's hair, and her eyes shone a bright golden. Hadrian thought she was the most beautiful owl in the he'd ever seen.

"Hey girl, I have a job for you," he spoke softly, stroking the feathers on her head.

"I need you to take the smaller parcel to Renatus Nott, and the larger one to Tom Riddle. Can you do that?" here he held out the packages he was holding with his right hand.

Nyx hooted her affirmation.

"Wonderful. Now, I need you to deliver them tomorrow morning at breakfast, but once you drop them off, just fly away. Don't come to me." she nipped his finger affectionately, and Hadrian knew that she understood.

Nyx had been a gift for Hadrian's tenth birthday, and though he almost never saw her whilst he was at Hogwarts, she was one of the vampire's closest companions. She even got along with Samsa.

Hadrian walked over to the perch on which Nyx had been resting, and spelled the parcels to levitate near it. Now the owl could pick them up when she was ready to deliver them, and they wouldn't have to be tied to her legs. He cast several wards to discourage any curious students that might attempt to have a closer look at the packages, or even see to whom they were addressed, though Nyx would likely attack anyone who tried to touch the mail.

She hopped off of his arm and onto the perch, and Hadrian fondly smoothed her feathers one last time.

"Thanks, girl," he smiled, and with that he departed.

.

~.~

.

The Great Hall was crowded, students of all Houses congregated along the lengthy wooden tables. A vast variety of breakfast food was available, in addition to tea and coffee. Tom had already finished his morning refection, and was now nursing a cup of tea, and casually observing his housemates. The Slytherin table was by far the most quiet of the four. The Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs were chattering noisily, and even many of the Ravenclaws were confabulating on about the schoolwork and whatnot, but the Slytherins sat in relative quietude and isolation, their conversations hushed-sounding compared to those of the other Houses.

As Tom took a small sip of his tea, he surveyed his closest followers. They had been more wary of him than they were usually in the recent months, due to the Chamber of Secrets being opened. The heir of Slytherin had never outright _told_ them that it was he who opened the Chamber, but the more intelligent of them had guessed. They valued their continued existence too highly to actually risk _asking_ Tom about it, however.

The subject was obsolete now anyway. Tom wouldn't be releasing Despoena again any time soon. In retrospect, the second floor girls' lavatory probably wasn't the optimal location to make his first kill. Now, the teachers were more watchful around that particular area, and so entering or exiting the Chamber had become increasingly difficult.

The teachers didn't suspect Tom, though, except for Dumbledore. The very thought of the man made the half-blood's magic spike angrily. Since the first time they had met, when Tom's friendly facade had slipped for _just a moment,_ the Transfiguration professor had watched Tom like a hawk.

And when Myrtle (for that was the dead Ravenclaw girl's name) had been killed, Dumbledore had immediately taken to watching Tom intently when the he thought the sixth-year wasn't looking.

But the old man couldn't prove anything. Tom had seen to that. With the Gryffindor oaf expelled and being held accountable for the events, Tom was practically the school hero for catching him.

Oh, the irony.

Tom didn't mind the fact that he couldn't target any more mudbloods for the time being, though. He had been devoting so much of his time to Despoena and the Chamber that he now had seemingly infinite free time. Time that he could now use for other things, such as placing additional enchantments of his Horcrux. Also, he needed to decide how best to use the _sensitive information_ he now had recently acquired regarding a certain Hadrian Peverell, to his advantage.

A month ago, Tom would've immediately made plans to force Peverell into becoming one of his Knights, but now he knew it wasn't a likely possibility. Though it pained him to admit it, the Slytherin heir knew that Peverell was too strong to be a follower. Tom doubted that _any_ blackmail could persuade the vampire that becoming an acolyte to Tom was the best course of action.

Peverell couldn't be made a follower. Not a Knight of Walpurgis, at least. No, Tom would have to think about what exactly he was going to do with the information. Peverell's vampirism was obviously a well-kept secret, and thus a valuable one.

After his duel with Peverell, Tom had been incensed, though honestly not all that surprised, to find that the portkey he'd stolen from Renatus had somehow disappeared. His ire hadn't done anything to dampen his curiosity, however. Very little was known about vampires, and to actually _meet one_ was fascinating.

Tom had spent most of the remainder of the Easter holidays in the library, researching the creatures. Even after days of investigation, the heir of Slytherin knew little. Most of the books were either prejudiced, painfully inaccurate, or simply conjecture. Tom had quickly eliminated most of the books simply by having _seen_ Peverell. Obviously, the vampire hadn't been hiding wings. Though he _had_ been using a glamour to conceal his fangs and the extreme pale of his skin, so Tom supposed _anything was possible,_ really.

Perhaps he would simply force Peverell to explain the mysteries of his kind. The knowledge would likely be useful in the future...

Tom was startled from his speculations by the arrival of the day's post. Owls soared in through the open windows carrying mail, hooting, and generally disturbing any peace there had been to be had in the Great Hall.

The heir of Slytherin didn't pay much attention to the owls, though. He never received post.

"Tom," someone said from across the table. Orion Black, he determined, judging by the voice.

"Yes?" he replied, not looking up from his tea.

"This bird seems to be attempting to deliver something to you," the pureblood remarked.

Tom looked up. To is astonishment, Black had been correct. A dark, well-groomed owl was sitting patiently in an empty space on the table, staring intensely at the halfblood. Upon noticing that it had Tom's attention, the black owl took to the air, dropping a heavy package in his lap. Tom followed the bird with his eyes, watching with no small amount of curiosity as the creature deposited a smaller parcel into the hands of Renatus Nott, who was sitting several seats away from the heir of Slytherin.

Nott seemed to recognise the bird, as he reached out to stroke its feathers, a small frown of confusion marring his face. The owl flew away after accepting a minute piece of bread from the Nott heir, who then proceeded to open his mail. Though he had received a letter as well, Nott opened the small package first. Like Tom's, the parcel in Renatus's hands was wrapped in brown paper and tied with a ribbon.

As Nott undid the ribbon and tore off the paper, Tom suddenly felt a slight change in the magic of the room. The package Nott was holding was giving off magic. _Familiar magic._ Tom watched with surprise, despite the feel of the magic, as the Nott heir lifted a gleaming golden necklace from the small box that had been revealed to be under the paper.

Tom almost laughed out loud, but forced himself to remain impassive. He could scarcely believe that Peverell would dare to return the portkey to Nott after Tom had summoned him using it, but the evidence that he _had,_ in fact, done just that, was now being fastened about the Nott heir's neck. As he clasped it shut, Tom felt a ward clicking into place. So the vampire hadn't been so foolish after all.

It was then that Slytherin's heir recalled that he too had been sent a parcel from Peverell. Looking down suspiciously at the book-shaped package, Tom untied the ribbon and unwrapped the book inside. The tome was clearly extraordinarily old, the title worn off and the edges worn. Tom's interest was piqued.

He flipped the book open to the inside cover, noting that the volume was hand-written. The title took a moment for the heir of Slytherin to decipher, as it was excessively ornate, but when he did, Tom's heart nearly stopped.

Horcruxes.

This was a book on Horcruxes. Tom felt nauseous. How could Peverell possibly know of his Horcrux? _No one knew._ He had been so careful, so cautious. How was this even remotely possible?

Tom slammed the book shut, leaping from the table. He needed to be alone, to figure this out. A slip of paper fell from the text as the half-blood exited the Great Hall, and Tom bent to pick it up, reading the elegant scrawl that had to belong to Hadrian Peverell.

_Congratulations, Tom._

_HP_

Now, standing in the nearly empty hallway outside of the Great Hall, Tom really did laugh. A group of passing Hufflepuff girls shot him bewildered looks, but the Slytherin heir ignored them completely.

Peverell was smart. No, Peverell was _brilliant_. How the vampire had managed to learn of Tom's Horcrux, he wasn't sure. What Tom _was_ sure of, however, was the fact that his secret was safe with Peverell.

A secret for a secret.


	8. A Change in Accommodations

**A Change in Accommodations**

.

~.~

.

_"A home without books is a body without a soul."_

-Marcus Tullius Cicero

.

~.~

.

As he stepped from the large fireplace of the manor, Hadrian wasted little time in dropping his glamour. Immediately, the vampire became aware that something was amiss. He couldn't divine what caused the feeling, as nothing was out of order in the parlour, but a feeling of profound _wrongness_ hung heavy on the air, stifling in its intensity. Hadrian dropped his trunk hurriedly, cast a longing glance in the direction of his piano, and rushed from the sitting room. He reached out with his magic in search of Carina; she was in the library, her aura wavering in agitation, an occurrence frighteningly rare.

His mother was pacing pack and forth in front of a large, antique looking trunk, muttering to herself in what Hadrian recognised as Latin. She looked flustered, her usually silky hair disheveled and her robes wrinkled. Dark circles marred the pale skin beneath her eyes.

"Carina," he called, the calm of his voice belying his growing anxiety.

She nearly jumped at the sound of his voice, a hand flying to her heart in surprise before she calmed at the sight of her son.

"Oh, Hadrian, thank _Merlin_ you're back." she said, running a hand through her tangled hair.

"Mother, what's wrong? What's going on here?" he asked anxiously. For her to have overlooked his arrival, despite the rush of his magic when he dropped his glamour, Carina must have been acutely preoccupied.

"We're leaving, Hadrian. At once. Grindelwald has acquired the services of another vampire, one of my old _acquaintances_ ," she spit the word, "It's only a matter of time until he finds us, now. Less time than I thought we would have."

Hadrian paled considerably, but nodded nonetheless. "I'll pack my things."

"Take only what you will need. We must leave our house looking as if we still live here, and there will likely be little room where we're going. Be ready to depart in fifteen minutes, and wear vampiric attire. The Bulgarian colony won't take kindly to us, should we appear as mere wizards."

"Alright," he reached out to Carina, squeezing her shoulder in a manner that he hoped was reassuring. He smiled, but it ended up resembling something more akin to a grimace. Hadrian turned and faded to his bedroom.

His room was as he had left it; tidy and organised. Hadrian undressed as he entered his closet, folding his robes and storing them in a small traveling bag, which he wandlessly levitated from a shelf high in his wardrobe. Setting his bag aside, the vampire strode to the back of the closet, where his vampiric habiliments were hung. Hadrian had needed to use the clothing very few times, but Carina made sure that he was familiar with the subtleties of vampiric dress from a young age.

Without delay, Hadrian began dressing. An elaborately ruffed white shirt was hastily tucked into black trousers, but was soon hidden nearly completely from sight by a heavy black frock coat. The jacket was lined with burgundy, and was large enough to hide Samsa's sleeping form around his waist. It fell to his knees, below which his feet were covered by tall, black, dragon hide boots. Frankly, Hadrian thought that the whole ensemble was a bit much. It did give off an air of sinister power, though, Hadrian had to admit, especially when contrasting with the exceptional pallor of his skin and his too-bright eyes.

Cracking his neck, Hadrian retrieved another coat and a vest from their places amongst his other vampiric clothing, and packed them into his bag.

The valise had an undetectable expansion charm on it, but it mattered little, as Hadrian wouldn't be stowing much. He pulled two sets of dressrobes (the Gathering was in a matter of _days_ , after all) and several casual sets from their hangers, placing them in the bag beside his vampiric clothing, a pair of trousers, and a black button-down.

He summoned his Hogwarts trunk with a flick of one of his wands and an _"Accio"_ , extracting his German Auror uniform, which was quickly added to his growing assemblage of important possessions. On second thought, he decided to shrink his school trunk and store it in the traveling bag. It wouldn't do for Grindelwald's men to find anything connected to Hogwarts here, if they indeed managed to seize the manor.

A small bag of toiletries was added to his bag, along with a moving picture of Carina and him on his thirteenth birthday. Hadrian debated whether or not he should fetch a few mice for Samsa, but decided that the snake (who was now sleeping, coiled 'round his midsection) would just have to make due with conjured ones.

Sighing, Hadrian looked around his room one last time. This was all too soon. He was _supposed_ to have the majority of the summer to spend at home. Alas, it would appear that Grindelwald had different plans. Hadrian did a brief scan the room with his magic, searching for anything that might be incriminating. Finding nothing, he slung the traveling bag over his shoulder and quit his room, wondering if he would ever return.

When he entered the library for the second time that day, it was to much the same situation. Instead of pacing, though, Carina now sat on the floor, staring absently at the old trunk. Hadrian wondered at it, as he had never before laid eyes on the brown leather chest. It was quite sizeable, larger than his Hogwarts trunk. With his magic, Hadrian was able to observe the fact that it was wrapped in an abundance of intricate wards and charms, enchantments known only to the undead.

"What is it?" he queried, and Carina rose to her feet gracefully.

"It _will be_ the library, if everything goes according to plan." she explained, but Hadrian grew more confused.

"The library," he deadpanned.

"Yes, well...hopefully. I'm actually going to need your help with this. Come here," she beckoned him to her with a wave of a hand. Hadrian approached warily, placing his traveling bag near the door.

When he had come to stand behind her, Carina opened the chest, unlatching the antiquarian brass locks. Hadrian peered curiously into its depths. Even after all this time, magic amazed him. Visible in the dim light of the library was a narrow flight of stairs, descending into the trunk.

"I've created a room in there. It's the size of this one," she gestured to the room around them, "and it will house all of the books." Hadrian was impressed. Such a feat required quite a bit of magic. Perhaps _that_ was why his mother appeared so exhausted.

"I need you to move the bookcases, though," she continued, "I'm too tired. I am, after all, an old woman," she quipped, but her ensuing chuckle sounded rather forced, a far cry from their usual badinage.

"Of course, mother. You really should get some sleep, you know."

"Sleep? Me? Highly unlikely. While _you_ choose to indulge in human leisures, _some of us_ have more important matters to attend to." she said haughtily, but the effect was lost somewhat in her tired eyes.

"Still. You should try it sometime. I find it thoroughly rejuvenating."

"Teenagers," she muttered to herself, "Always think they're infallible."

Carina continued at a higher volume. "Just finish the library, Hadrian, we must leave straightaway." she stepped out of the room.

Said vampire rolled his eyes at his mother and set about transporting the contents of the library to the room within the trunk. He drew both of his wands, not fatuous enough to attempt such a great venture of magic wandlessly, and gathered his magic into his body, feeling it flowing through his veins and thrumming in his ears.

The feeling wasn't alien to the vampire, as he had performed this particular task once before, albeit on a much smaller scale. Carina and he had traveled extensively throughout the course of his childhood, so that he could become fluent in several languages, and they had often brought different 'rooms' with them. Usually, it was only a closet or a bedroom in a much smaller trunk. The library was rather enormous. For Carina to insist upon bringing all of the books meant that they would not likely be returning soon, if ever.

Hadrian walked around each individual bookcase, weaving webs of enchantments over them, until they were coruscating with golden light, trapped within splendent nets of magic. Once every bookcase was aglow, he began to walk the perimeter of the library, drawing a line with his wand to enclose the numerous shelves of books.

When he had traveled around the entire area, and the line encircled the room and its contents completely, Hadrian turned his attention to the chest near the entrance of the library. It was still open, and the vampire couldn't help but peer into its depths with no little amount of apprehension. He knew theoretically that he could accomplish this, as he was likely one of the most powerful wizards alive, but it wouldn't be _easy_ by any standards.

Steeling himself, Hadrian stepped into the trunk, descending the stairs into the space below. The interior of the chest was dark, and the vampire's eyes strained to see the walls and the ceiling.

" _Lumos Maxima,_ " he pointed his wand at the space above him, not entirely sure what exactly would be uncloaked by the light. The room that was revealed in the effulgent glow of the spell was exactly like the library, though empty. Hadrian admired Carina's work. _No wonder she is tired,_ he thought, _this is perfect._ The rooms were, for all intents and purposes, identical. The mahogany paneling along the walls, the intricate wooden moulding adorning the plaster ceiling, even the small fireplace in the back.

Hadrian smiled. Perhaps leaving wouldn't be so unbearable after all. He would have his books, after all, and they were more 'home' than any manor. No doubt Carina had similar sentiments.

Hadrian paced around the edges of the large, rectangular room, drawing a line similar to the one he had drawn in the original library. When he had completed the outline, the vampire moved to stand beside the fireplace, in a site corresponding with an empty space in the room outside the trunk.

Hadrian took a deep breath, and braced himself for his upcoming endeavour. The vampire raised his wands in front of him, pushing his magic through the cherry wood and out to fill the chamber. He closed his eyes and envisaged the library as it should be; it's tall bookshelves and sliding ladders, the locations of the sections for various subjects, the leather armchairs by the fire. The picture in his mind was clear, and as magic poured from him, pervading the air, the walls, the hardwood floor, he could feel the library materialising around him.

The draw on his power was becoming stronger as the transportation required more energy in its final stages, and Hadrian had to force himself to remain standing.

Finally, the pull on his magic stopped, and Hadrian opened his eyes. The library was now standing around him in all its considerable glory. _Thank Salazar,_ he thought as he collapsed into one of the leather armchairs. If it hadn't worked, the vampire doubted that he would have been able to perform the spell again. He was currently suffering from appreciable magical exhaustion.

"Hadrian!" the voice of his mother echoed down from outside the trunk.

"In here," he called back faintly.

Hadrian heard the sound of footsteps as Carina descended the stairs, her footfalls quiet yet audible on the wooden floor.

" _Félicitations,"_ she congratulated as she emerged from behind a bookcase near Hadrian's armchair. He raised an eyebrow at her use of French. She'd always resented the fact that Hadrian preferred French to English, the language that was supposed to be his mother tongue. He could hardly help it, though; it was far more pleasing to the ears.

" _Merci,"_ he responded with a nod of his head. He _was_ rather proud of it all. Glancing at his mother, Hadrian noted that she seemed much less fatigued than she had earlier. She had changed into a flowing midnight blue gown, and wore a long dark cape over it. Her hair had been brushed and pulled back into a plait, and the circles beneath her eyes were far less pronounced. She smiled when she noticed his observation.

"Potion?" he questioned her enlivened state.

"Pepper-up. You could use one too; _you look dreadful._ " she drew a small phial from a pocket within her robes, offering it to Hadrian. He took it.

"Why thank you." he drawled sarcastically, but downed the unpleasant potion in one gulp nevertheless. Immediately, he felt more energised.

Carina held out her hand, and pulled Hadrian up from his chair. Together, they navigated their way back to the stairs, which they ascended, stepping out into the now empty library. Carina closed the trunk, casting a feather-light charm on it before levitating it behind her. On their way out, Hadrian lifted his small traveling bag from where it sat near the door to the room, settling the strap on his shoulder (though he was careful not to disturb Samsa). The library felt eerie, now, as empty as it was. It appeared that Carina had conjured a long table and chairs whilst Hadrian was inside the trunk. The chamber now appeared to be nothing more than a large dining room, which suited their purposes well, as they didn't have one in actuality.

"Come, it's time to leave." his mother ushered him down the hallway and into the foyer. As they passed the parlour, Hadrian halted, staring at his piano. He didn't want to leave it; it was his most prized possession, really. He wondered if he couldn't move it into the trunk with the library, but when he voiced the thought to Carina, his mother simply smiled sadly, shook her head, and pulled him into the foyer muttering something about the lack of time.

Hadrian scowled at her overbearing nature. Though they looked to be the same age now, Carina retained her matriarchal status and insisted that she would boss him around as she pleased. He didn't contest her behaviour, as she was really quite lenient in matters of import. Well, in matters of import that didn't regard his piano.

"We won't be returning, will we?" he asked her as he looked around the house. Nothing was out of place, but it felt _sad_ nevertheless.

"Perhaps, though I must admit that it appears somewhat unlikely as of now." she replied sombrely.

"What of Velda?" up until now, Hadrian hadn't spared a second thought to the house-elf.

"She doesn't know that we're leaving. If they come here, she won't have any information to hide." Carina had turned her face away from her son, and Hadrian wondered if she might be crying. "Merlin, I hope they don't hurt her," his mother whispered, but her voice cracked in spite of the low volume.

"Why can't we simply take her with us?"

"The colony in Bulgaria; they don't allow house-elves. Only vampires may pass through their gates." she looked at Hadrian now, and her eyes were suspiciously bright.

"I'm sure she'll be fine. They probably won't even notice Velda at all, if they come to search here. Wizards _do_ tend to underestimate the power of house-elves." he attempted to console his mother.

"You're right. I'm being mawkish." Hadrian didn't bother to correct her. She _was_ , after all, weeping over a _house-elf_. Besides, he was fairly close to tears at leaving his piano behind, himself.

Carina pulled herself together after a moment.

"I'll fade us there, seeing as you aren't familiar with the colony." she held out her hand, which Hadrian took hold of, and canceled the spells keeping the sconces and other candles throughout the manor afire. Now the only light in the house was the moonlight, spilling in through the many windows and casting long, crepuscular shadows onto the polished floors.

Hadrian shrunk the floating trunk housing the library, placing it into a hidden pocket in the lining of his coat. His personal valise hung from his shoulder, as did Carina's on hers.

With an exchange of small, sad smiles, the pair disappeared into the shadows.

.

~.~

.

The pages of the book were thin and delicate, frangible and yellowed with age. Tom turned them with the utmost care, despite the multiple preserving charms he could detect on the book. Whoever had cast the spells, presumably Peverell, had been quite thorough. The pages were protected from any further damage than their age, and the spine and cover were similarly preserved. Tom had cast many diagnostic spells on the book in order to detect exactly what had been done to it (he _was_ a Slytherin, after all, and though the possibility of it bearing a curse was small, it _was_ existent) and had come to the interesting, yet not wholly unexpected conclusion that a copy had been made the book.

Not that he could exactly _blame_ Peverell. Tom would be loath to give up a priceless relic such as the volume on soul magic without making a copy even if he _wasn't_ creating Horcruxes. And the book was exactly that: priceless. The heir of Slytherin had spent much time over the past months wondering where exactly Peverell had acquired it. Of course, the vampire likely had access to the libraries of many dark families, and _someone_ had to have a book on Horcruxes.

Tom had read through it several times by now, but it was difficult to cease. It was just so _fascinating_. The half-blood was almost _glad_ that Peverell had found a way of blackmailing him in return, if only because he now had the book in his possession.

If not for it, Tom would have in all probability recklessly created numerous additional Horcruxes. Now, he wouldn't dare. According to this book (which Tom was quite willing to believe, considering that he had virtually no other sources), the creation of multiple Horcruxes could mutilate the soul beyond repair, leading to madness. If there was anything Tom loved more than his magic, it was his mind, and living in a state of insanity sounded entirely unappealing.

But with only one Horcrux, Tom was still relatively _mortal_. And that was unacceptable. He had looked into other forms of immortality, but none of them sounded as entirely appealing as Horcruxes. In the time after his confrontation with Peverell, while he was researching vampires, Tom had briefly considered vampirism as a method of achieving eternal life. From what he had gathered, the creatures of the night were virtually indestructible.

They were, for all intents and purposes, exactly what Tom wanted to be. Unfortunately, Tom had recently learned that there were two classes of vampires, and that Turned vampires (which is all the half-blood could ever hope to become) were the lower of the two. And Tom would never willingly put himself in a position where he would be considered inferior. So here he was, reading through the book on Horcruxes _yet again_ in hopes for some spark of inspiration.

None was forthcoming.

He heaved a sigh, and turned another page, sinking deeper into the fluffy pillows of the small cot in his room. It was a small, dingy place, but it was sufficient for Tom's needs. Far superior to the orphanage, at least.

The inn in Knockturn Alley was located not far from the apothecary where Tom found work this summer, and its rates were low. For a galleon a night, Tom had a place to sleep and study, and two meals a day. His room was a vast improvement from the one he had occupied in the orphanage, anyway, especially considering the fact that he was free to use magic to improve it.

The uncomfortable, unforgiving bed had been transfigured into one that, although small, boasted a pleasantly firm mattress, warm blankets (though they were mostly unnecessary in the heat of the summer), and soft pillows. The grimy, tattered yellow curtains had been replaced with conjured white ones, which the rare breeze would ruffle if Tom had the window open, and blocked out the light during the day whilst Tom was sleeping. During the night, sounds from the Alley would drift up into Tom's room, but the half-blood was usually away working.

Throughout the daytime, Knockturn Alley was a dull, boring place with few shops and even fewer customers. After the sun set, however, Knockturn came alive with light and laughter, as more shops opened and the majority of the Alley's clientèle came looking for goods of a more sinister nature than those sold in the Knockturn's more... _tame_ sister Alley.

Pubs and pawn shops and bookstores specialising in the Dark Arts opened their doors in the nighttime, the owners eager to sell their wares. Knockturn was, after all, the only establishment in Britain that catered exclusively to Dark wizards.

The daytime was too conspicuous of a time for illegal trade, particularly considering that the Alley was adjacent to Diagon, where Light wizards congregated like moths around a flame. It was for this reason that the inhabitants of Knockturn Alley were, essentially, nocturnal.

Tom worked shifts in the apothecary from ten to three, after which he often found himself wandering the alley aimlessly, exploring the mysterious nooks and crannies and little shops that hid amongst the shadows. In the short time that Tom had been living in the Alley, he had become intimately familiar with the many of its bookstores, and had taken the opportunity of living in close proximity to so many dark wizards to expand his sphere of influence.

Now, the heir of Slytherin's name was known in the less refined circles of Dark society, which Tom knew could be equally useful. He had also now had several contacts that would keep him alerted to anything substantial happening whilst he was at Hogwarts.

In Knockturn Alley, many of the individuals that came and went weren't entirely human, either. Werewolves, Veela, and other creatures whom the Ministry discriminated against were prevalent among Knockturn's customers, as most couldn't walk the streets of Diagon Alley for fear of being captured and turned in for a reward.

In recent years, with fear of all things Dark escalating, the Ministry had become less tolerant of even the most benign of Dark creatures. Even _Veela_ , who were hardly dangerous unless they were in their more ferocious bird form, were required to 'register' themselves, and _any_ Dark creature that escaped registration had an extortionate price hanging over their head.

But in Knockturn, they were safe (from the threat of prosecution for their species, at least) and Tom had become acquainted with several of them. He'd met a handful of Veela, who seemed impressed with Tom's ability to resist their thrall, and a helpful, if slightly rugged looking, werewolf girl probably a year younger than Tom. The girl, who simply called herself 'Saoul', had shown Tom a pub in which much of the trade and negotiation between Dark creatures took place.

It was there, only three days ago, that Tom had encountered the second vampire he had ever met. The man was old, though he looked to be in relatively good health, which could also be attributed to his vampirism, rather than his lifestyle (which was fortunate, as by the time Tom arrived, the man had already consumed a fair amount of alcohol). In the hours of conversation which followed their meeting, Tom gleaned more information about the vampiric race than he had from any of the books he had read about the creatures.

Tom soon learned, courtesy of the old man, that when someone was 'turned', they automatically became as healthy and attractive as their magic could make them, a sort of survival method. Apparently, vampires had a thrall of their own which they could use on their prey.

And so, though the old man had been nearly ninety at the time of his turning, he now appeared no older than sixty, and to have aged well. The vampire, whose name he refused to give despite his inebriated state, was a well of information on the species about which Tom was so curious.

It was from him that the half-blood learned about the two classes of vampires, and what that entailed. Much to Tom's disappointment, however, the vampire knew little about born vampires. Apparently, they were elusive even to their more human brethren, and so Tom resigned himself to talking to Peverell at the Summer Gathering. After all, the Peverell heir couldn't have been Turned, as he aged. And if a vampire wasn't born, they stopped ageing after their Turning.

The vampire Tom met in the pub was nearly two centuries old, now, and though he claimed to know little in comparison to some of the older vampires, he had been happy to sate some of Tom's curiosity, answering the half-blood's questions to the best of his abilities.

That accommodation ended about an hour before the sun came up, when Tom naïvely inquired as to how one went about killing a vampire. The half-blood had assumed, given the man's level of intoxication, and the fact that he had been so obliging to all of Tom's previous questions, that this one wouldn't offend him.

Tom loathed being proved incorrect.

After the heir of Slytherin's apparent faux pas, the man had closed off and left the pub without so much as a 'farewell', and Tom hadn't seen him since.

With a frustrated huff, Tom closed his book. His search for a way to create another Horcrux without damaging his soul was yielding no results. _Besides,_ he thought as he glanced in the direction of the window, _it's getting late, and my shift probably starts soon._ Judging by the near darkness of the alley outside as well as the mounting volume of the chatter drifting up through his window, the heir of Slytherin guessed the time to be nearing nine o'clock.

" _Tempus_ ," he cast with a flick of his wrist. His assumption about the general time was confirmed as the spell revealed it to be just past the hour.

Tom swung his legs over to the side of the bed, rising from his former position of relaxation. He needed to get ready for work. His shift started at ten, and the half-blood needed to check on the Heritage Potion he was currently brewing in the back of the apothecary. One of the perks of his occupation as an assistant in that particular shop was the access he had to a potions lab. It was a dimly lit, somewhat questionable place, and the apothecary sold a few of the less legal potions pre-brewed for the customers with less prowess in potion making.

The owner of the shop, an ancient woman whose first name Tom didn't know, and whom he addressed simply as 'Mrs. Abbott', had hired Tom quickly after he demonstrated his considerable adroitness in the subject. She told him that he was free to do as he wished so long as he completed the necessary potions and paid for any ingredients he used in his personal ones.

And so it was that the first potion Tom had set about brewing was one that would reveal the names of his parents. He knew that theoretically, his father was names Tom Riddle, and his mother had to be of magical descent, considering his Parselmouth trait, but he wanted to know her _name_. Who she was, why she'd died, what had happened to his father, if he was still alive. The potion only required a week to brew, and so Tom would be finished today. With any luck, he would be able to track down his relatives before the Summer Gathering, which was only a few days away.

Tom carried the book carefully over to the wall opposite him, where he had conjured a bookcase to house his growing collection of various literature. He slid the heavy volume into its assigned place gingerly. Beside it were the other books Tom had acquired on Soul Magic; their numbers were few, though Knockturn Alley's bookstores had provided much more information than even the Restricted Section of the Hogwarts library. Still, the most helpful of the lot was the one sent to the half-blood by Peverell, and even it didn't detail any methods of creating multiple Horcruxes.

But as difficult as his search was, Tom _would_ find a way of safely creating another Horcrux. He was sure of it. _He had to,_ eventually. _If only it was possible to create one without splitting my soul again,_ Tom mused as he gazed at the spines of his course, that sort of defeated the purpose of creating a Horcrux at all, as the entire basis of the forbidden practice revolved around leaving a piece of soul tethered to the earth so that death would only affect the body. A Horcrux _needed_ a piece of soul to function, and theoretically, the only place the piece could come from was Tom.

Unless...

What if he could split his existing Horcrux? Could he perhaps find some way of moving a portion of his soul from the diary to some other vessel? It was unlikely, but not impossible.

Tom reached up to the top of his bookshelf and retrieved his small black diary. He had debated for a while on where he should keep it, but decided that, as he had once been told, _the best hiding places were in plain sight_. Eventually, he planned to place the Horcrux in the care of one of his followers, as he couldn't very well resurrect _himself_ in the case of his untimely death. No, he would need _help_. The word felt bitter in his mind, but it was the only way.

But the diary wouldn't be his only Horcrux. No, finding a way of transferring a piece of the soul in the small black book would take some research, but with an additional murder and a vessel to contain the newly fragmented soul, Tom was nearly entirely sure it would be possible.

Placing the Horcrux back in its 'hiding place', the heir of Slytherin snatched his wand from where it sat on the small desk near the bookcase, and exited his room. He had a night of potion making ahead of him, and perhaps he would forsake sleep the coming day in favour of creating another Horcrux.

.

~.~

.

They appeared shrouded in darkness, their forms obscured by the shadows of the hallway they had materialised in. Hadrian took in the place with calculating eyes, noting the cold stone floors and high arching ceilings. It appeared to be a castle of sorts. Tapestries adorned the rough stone walls, doing little to ameliorate the menacing atmosphere.

A tug on the sleeve of his frock coat alerted Hadrian to the fact that Carina was attempting to catch his attention. He glanced at her, just in time to see her shrink her traveling bag to a small enough size to fit into the small pocket Hadrian knew was concealed inside her sleeve.

Following her example, Hadrian shrunk his own valise, which soon joined the library trunk inside his jacket.

Carina started walking, then, and Hadrian quickly fell into step beside her, his longer legs working to his advantage at keeping the quick pace she set. The castle, or wherever they were, was eerily silent, save for their footfalls, and Hadrian felt uneasy as they turned corner after corner, and downright _anxious_ by the time they came to a set of polished ebony doors.

The vampire looked at his mother, only to find her staring determinedly ahead. Understanding what he was meant to do, Hadrian stepped forward and reached out to the gleaming silver handle of one of the doors, and pulled it open. Carina passed through the doorway without so much as a glance toward her son, and Hadrian followed her, head held high and equally aloof. He looked steadily forward, observing the chamber through his peripheral vision.

It was a large room, with stained glass windows through which stubborn moonlight trickled, staining the floors and walls of the chamber shades of green and blue. The chamber was not otherwise lit. Were it not for Hadrian's enhanced sight, he would likely be nearly blind in the dark. As it was, he could perfectly well make out the sight of several figures sitting in a row of ornately carved chairs. Thrones, perhaps.

At their entrance, the figures rose. There were three of them; two men and a woman. Hadrian could sense that the woman was the most powerful of the three, likely a born vampire and also the one in charge. She was the only other born vampire that Hadrian had ever encountered, aside from Carina, of course. He'd met a fair amount of turned vampires, but as he understood it, only twenty or so borns were alive at this point.

The woman must be fairly important. As she approached, however, Hadrian was able to determine that she was not _nearly_ as powerful as his mother. She was quite beautiful, with dark brown hair falling in tight ringlets and luminescent golden eyes, but slight crow's feet were discernible on her pale skin, an attestation to the age at which she must have come into her Inheritance. By the looks of her, it couldn't have been before her late twenties.

She flicked her hand in the direction of the two male vampires, and they fell back into the shadows.

"Carina, it is a pleasure to see you." the woman greeted warmly in Bulgarian, stepping up to embrace the smaller, blonde woman. Hadrian was slightly surprised to see his mother so comfortable around another.

"And you, dearest Fila," Carina replied in the same tongue. Hadrian watched with no small amount of curiosity as the woman, Fila, batted at his mother's shoulder.

"Now, now, you know how I loath that ridiculous little sobriquet, _Carie_." Carina's nose scrunched in an expression of distaste at the moniker, before she let out a small chuckle.

"As delightful a surprise as your arrival here is, Carina, I must wonder at your reasons for coming. I haven't seen you in decades; why visit now?"

Carina sighed and brought a hand up to rest on Hadrian's shoulder. "I'm afraid that we need a place to stay for a while, Filipa. The new Dark Lord is intent on recruiting my Hadrian here." At this, the brunette vampire's eyes flicked curiously over Hadrian, assessing him.

"Hadrian, is it?" she asked, stepping closer and squinting slightly at him. Hadrian resisted the urge to step back, or fidget under her scrutiny. "Why is it that I have not met you? You are too strong to be merely turned, and yet I _know_ all the others..." the woman trailed off, mumbling the last part under her breath.

"I am Hadrian Peverell," he said by way of explanation, and was rewarded by a bewildered look, followed by the slight widening of the woman's eyes.

"Peverell? As in Cassius and Anastasia Peverell?"

"The very same. I am their son."

The woman, Filipa, blinked at him, and then turned to Carina for confirmation. "Cassius and Ana? They had a _child?"_

"Indeed they did. It would appear that they were able to deliver him to relative safety before their unfortunate demise. I have raised him myself," at this, Carina sent a fond smile in Hadrian's direction, which he returned warmly.

"Grindelwald is now aware of his existence, unfortunately. We are on the run, Filipa, and need somewhere safe to stay. I entreat you to provide us sanctuary." Hadrian knew that this was a blow to his mother's pride, essentially begging for something, and he loved her all the more for it.

Filipa looked momentarily stunned, before she schooled her expression back into a more acceptable one.

"Of course, Carina. You are always welcome here; you know that." here, she turned to Hadrian, "As are you, Hadrian. It is an honour to meet you, and to help even slightly in the efforts against your parents' murderer." She bowed her head slightly in respect, and Hadrian returned the gesture.

"As is it an honour make your acquaintance, Mrs...?"

"Filipa Aleksandrov. But please, call me Filipa." the woman smiled.

"Then it is an honour to make your acquaintance, Filipa." Hadrian forced his mouth into a beatific smile, and was delighted to see Filipa twirl a strand of hair between her fingertips, falling prey to his charms.

Suddenly, a concerned look came over her face, and Hadrian wondered if she had seen through him. His worry was for naught, though, as suddenly she turned to him with sharp eyes.

"How old are you, Hadrian?" she questioned suspiciously.

"I turn seventeen at the end of the upcoming month." he replied cautiously. Lying would serve no purpose here.

Filipa gaped.

"You're sixteen? _Sixteen?"_ she turned her incredulous gaze to Carina, who simply nodded her confirmation. " _Merlin!_ You haven'e even reached your Inheritance, and yet you have one of the most powerful auras I have ever felt!"

Filipa just stepped back and stared at Hadrian for a moment, making him feel decidedly uncomfortable. How was he supposed to respond to _that?_

"I think I understand, now; why Grindelwald is after you." the woman said absently, gazing into the distance.

Carina stiffened beside him. Filipa seemed to snap out of her reverie, then, and hurried to amend her previous statement.

"It's just that—" she cut herself off mid sentence, seeming to search for the correct words. "You will be powerful, Hadrian. You _are_ powerful...And you are welcome to stay here as long as you wish. You have the protection of the clan now."

Hadrian bowed his head in gratitude. "Thank you, Filipa."


	9. All is Fair

**In Love and War, All is Fair**

.

~.~

.

" _Nothing endears so much a friend as sorrow for his death. The pleasure of his company has not so powerful an influence."_

-David Hume

.

~.~

.

The wineglass was cool against his fingertips, and even more so against his full lips. Hadrian sipped delicately, though in truth he longed for nothing more than to swill the liquid down in its entirety. _Immediately_. On first glance, the glass's contents appeared to be wine, but with further observation, one could tell that the vinous substance was too opaque, too viscid, to be any sort of alcohol, and its coppery aroma was olfactible from throughout the chamber, to the vampires therein.

The blood wasn't sweet, as a wizard's or a child's would be, and so Hadrian suspected that it must be from an ordinary muggle. Nevertheless, it was quite preferable to any Blood Substituting potion. But oh, how the young vampire longed for the feeling of his fangs sinking into soft human flesh. Alas, he hadn't truly fed since the Easter holidays, as he hadn't managed to escape the Bulgarian colony for long enough to hunt.

The past week had blurred together, especially as Hadrian hadn't been adhering to his usual schedule of sleeping at night. No, when one was in the presence of only other vampires, the desire to sleep seemed to melt away.

Hadrian, in fact, hadn't slept since the night he arrived at Citadel Vrykolakas (for that was the name of the large castle), electing instead to spend his time conversing with the other inhabitants, or more commonly, reading.

For the first time in his life, Hadrian was free to walk around for days on end without any glamour, and the resultant feeling was one of delightful liberation. The other vampires of the castle were friendly, though slightly wary of him, which Hadrian couldn't fault them for. But when he _did_ fall into discussion with anyone, he was more or less free to speak his mind. Of course, he couldn't speak of Hogwarts or much of Grindelwald, and the subject of wizard politics was considered dull to most vampires, but being able to confer about vampiric matters whatsoever was a welcome change.

Needless to say, Hadrian was enjoying his stay in Bulgaria. Even Samsa was welcomed here, free to roam about as she wished, though the others were understandably circumspect around the serpent. Parseltongue was a trait exclusive to wizards, and rare even then, so although the vampires weren't afraid of Hadrian or his familiar _per se,_ they were definitely cautious.

Frankly, Hadrian didn't mind.

He preferred solitude, and knew that were he more friendly and open, the others would no doubt be eager to interrogate him, as he was essentially the first of his kind, the child of two of the most powerful of vampires. Currently, he had adopted a cold and yet polite attitude toward those he encountered, and only sought conversation when it suited him. Though vampires had the loose hierarchy of born and turned, politics were minimal, and Hadrian was thankful for the momentary respite.

The Summer Gathering had started last night, and would continue this evening. He would have to be charming and charismatic, interacting with far too many people for his liking, though it was necessary now more than ever. That wasn't to say that Hadrian didn't _enjoy_ manipulating the wizards; participating in the subtle machinations of the Dark. He did, in fact, find quite a large amount of satisfaction in outwitting his political opponents in the devious mind games.

He was looking forward to that aspect of the Gathering, as he did every solstice. But he was also wary. Thankfully, his true name wasn't known to Grindelwald, but it was only a matter of time until even the Gatherings weren't safe for him. Carina and he had taken to accompanying each other wherever they went outside of the Citadel, in hopes that, were they to be attacked, they would stand more of a chance against Grindelwald's forces.

Whereas before they had fled from their home the Dark Lord might have been lenient, even courteous toward Carina, now it was different. They had essentially declared themselves as enemies now, and whilst Hadrian would likely be treated with some consideration due to his unique power, Carina was now of no more use to the Dark Lord than providing information on Hadrian's whereabouts.

Not that his mother would ever do such a thing.

Nevertheless, the pair was cautious, seldom leaving the Citadel and sustaining themselves with the blood provided in the establishment, rather than risking themselves by wandering far from the relative safety they were provided amongst the vampires.

Relative it was, though, because in general, vampires were hardly a trustworthy lot. Filipa, who was the pseudo 'queen' of the colony, had forbade their presence to be spoken of outside the walls of the Citadel, but it did little to alleviate the worry Hadrian felt in regards to their safety. For although most of his fellow vampires were more loyal to their kind than to any Dark Lord, there were those that would be willing to sell information for the right price, Hadrian knew.

So Carina and he made it a point not to tell more particulars to any of them than was absolutely necessary. This practice did tend to make confabulatory encounters slightly more difficult than they were ordinarily, but Carina had shaped Hadrian into a skilled conversationalist, and so it was hardly impossible to avoid topics of a sensitive nature if that was indeed his wish. None of the vampires were even aware that the two had left the Citadel last night in order to attend the Gathering in Marseilles.

Hadrian lowered his wineglass. The glass clinked against the smooth wooden table, an echo resounding throughout the hall. About twenty vampires were seated at the table, all holding wineglasses similar to Hadrian's own. It had taken a couple of days to become accustomed to it, but the feeding system within Citadel Vrykolakas made an odd sort of sense.

The doors to the dining hall were open constantly, the table inside them perpetually laden with rows upon rows of glasses filled with blood. The table was long, providing Hadrian plenty of room to seclude himself away from the others. During the past week, Hadrian had discovered exactly which hours of the day seemed to be the least busy in the dining hall, and now came to feed every morning at four o'clock. This left him somewhat hungry and irritated during the later portion of the day, as he was accustomed to feeding twice in twenty-four hours, rather than only once.

Enduring the hunger was worth it, though, to be spared from the tedious socialising and redundant questioning. Most of the other vampires that frequented the dining hall at this hour had a similar goal in mind, so silence reigned while the occupants of the room sated their thirst. Hadrian was somewhat weary, though, having returned mere hours ago, but he didn't dare sleep, and miss his peaceful dining time.

Lost in his thoughts as he was, Hadrian didn't become aware of the approaching presence behind him until the person was nearly upon him.

"Carina," he acknowledged softly, his voice clearly audible in the quiet of the hall.

"Hadrian," his mother greeted, and seated herself beside him, tucking a stray strand of silvery hair behind her ear.

"What brings you to the dining hall at this ungodly hour?" Hadrian raised an eyebrow, though in truth her intentions were obvious. Carina wouldn't be here unless she had sought him out specifically.

His mother shot him a playful glare. "I'm going hunting tonight, while you're at the Gathering." she disregarded his previous question.

Hadrian stiffened. Last night, they had attended the Gathering together, with Carina glamoured to change her appearance, and sporting an alias, of course. Hadrian was rather grateful, actually, as her presence had warded off the vapid girls that were prone to pestering the young vampire.

Their appearance together had _indeed_ caused quite a stir, especially when the pair disappeared into the same room at the end of the night. They had, of course, faded back to Citadel Vrykolakas, where they were now, but the easily excited Gathering guests didn't know that. Carina's presence by his side had drawn an uncomfortable amount of attention. After all, it was well known that Hadrian Peverell didn't show real interest in anyone. Ever.

Hadrian had assumed that they would both attend again tonight. He didn't want his mother wandering about alone, and they had casually agreed to remaining in each other's company for safety. It was too dangerous for Carina to go hunting now, and Hadrian wouldn't stand for this folly. Not when his mother's wellbeing was at risk.

"No." his voice was low, unwilling to draw attention, but he wanted Carina to know that he was serious. Hadrian wouldn't let her go.

"What do you mean, 'no'? I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, and you would do well to remember that."

"It's too dangerous. You could be caught, Carina, and you know that Grindelwald's men wouldn't be merciful."

"I am not a _child_ , Hadrian. You have no say in what I do. I merely thought it prudent to inform you of my plans, so that you _wouldn't worry._ " she hissed. Several of the vampires dining farther down the table looked up in interest at the sound of conflict. Hadrian glared at them menacingly and flared his magic, and they turned back to their meals, cowed.

"I'll do naught but worry, if you truly intend to go through with this." he pleaded.

"I do, but you needn't concern yourself with my welfare. If anything, I'll be safer without your incessant nagging." she attempted to lighten the mood. Hadrian ignored her jibe.

"I won't go to the Gathering, then. If you insist on being difficult, I will simply forego attending it and accompany you on your hunt. Merlin knows that I'm in need of a live meal."

"You will do no such thing," Carina dictated, "Now, more than ever, you need to be there."

Hadrian glowered, his magic sparking in irritation. The vampires seated closest to him inched away at the show of power.

Carina, unfortunately, was undeterred. Hadrian stood, drawing himself up to his full height in a halfhearted attempt at intimidation.

"So _I'm_ not permitted to worry about _your_ wellbeing, but you dare to forbid be from missing the Gathering because you're afraid I would put myself in _danger?"_ he ground out minatorily.

Carina followed him, rising to her feet.

"Yes," she hissed, leaning forward to poke him in the chest. "Because I am your _mother._ It is my _right_ to worry and boss you about, and _you will do as I say."_

With that, she turned away from Hadrian, and marched quickly out of the hall. Her vampiric robes whipped around her, and an irate Hadrian was left standing beside the table, fuming.

~.~

Late that night, the Peverell heir appeared in the Grand Foyer of Delacour Manor in Marseilles, alone. He was clothed in fine array that, he had to admit, was somewhat influenced by the vampiric clothing styles he had come to appreciate in the past weeks. The robes he wore fell to his knees, tailored to fit his torso snugly, and his cape was long and flowing. He had chosen to clothe himself in earthy colours, his robes golden, accented by the warm brown of his cloak. The cape itself was lined with a mossy green satin, the colour serving to make his verdant eyes appear all the more vibrant.

But although he looked the picture of elegance, Hadrian was, in fact, on edge.

He had lost the argument with Carina, and in a matter of hours, his mother would be journeying out into the streets of Bulgaria, hunting. The entire matter was wholly unsettling, and Hadrian's instincts screamed at him that it was wrong. All wrong. And Hadrian had learnt long ago to trust his instincts above all else.

As it was, he simply strode gracefully into the main ballroom, his cape swishing about his feet as he walked. Many heads turned in his direction, even more than was usual for him. Hadrian tensed. It couldn't be that they knew about him, could it? No, surely there was no way that Grindelwald had connected the dots already. Hadrian attributed the extra attention to the fact that word had spread of his lovely escort, and the witches and wizards were likely surprised to see him alone tonight.

Hadrian ignored their stares, and walked toward the far end of the grand ballroom, where he could see the Morgan brothers conversing in a corner with a tall, burly man who could be none other than Bayard Carax. Hadrian's lips quirked in a spontaneous smirk at the sight of the Frenchman; it had been Bayard who took him to his first Gathering, and so seeing him again here was fitting. Hadrian hadn't seen him in months, and the Frenchman was probably his closest friend. It had been even longer since he'd seen the Morgan brothers.

He had avoided them the previous night, partly because he didn't want to have to watch them eye up his mother, and partly because they had been with Tom Riddle, whom Hadrian was eager to avoid. The vampire knew that Riddle would want answers, and was hesitant to so much as stand in the same room as the Slytherin heir.

As he walked, Hadrian passed by a sulking Renatus, whose eyes never left him, but whom he chose to ignore. He had nothing to say to the Nott heir, though he knew that eventually, Renatus would want to talk. He was just that sort of person, and Hadrian mentally berated himself for ever becoming involved with him.

When he reached his destination, Drystan and Andras were already smiling in his direction, but Bayard hadn't yet noticed him.

"Good evening, Drystan, Andras," he nodded his head to them each in turn, his gaze shifting to Bayard as the tall wizard froze at the sound of his voice, then slowly turned to face him. Bayard's smile was cordial, proper, but his eyes twinkled in a display of his enthusiasm. 

“ _Hadrian! Ca fait longtemps depuis la dernière fois qu'on s'est vu.”_ Hadrian held out his hand, and Bayard shook it firmly.

Hadrian grinned. _“_ _Bonsoir_ _, Bayard.”_

"It's good to see you," Andras patted him on the shoulder enthusiastically. Hadrian resisted the urge to flinch. He didn't like physical contact unless he initiated it himself.

"And you, Andras." he said dutifully. The Morgan brothers seemed to be glancing around Hadrian, searching for someone.

"So," began Drystan, and Hadrian raised an eyebrow at the shrewd tone of his voice. "Where's the lovely lady you had on your arm last night? I must admit that I am quite eager to meet her."

Bayard raised an eyebrow, a silent question. He knew that Hadrian didn't openly date. Ever.

"She is otherwise engaged tonight," Hadrian told them, being purposefully vague.

"Shame," muttered Andras, "My brother was lusting after her the entire evening."

Drystan elbowed his brother harshly, sending him a pointed glare. Hadrian chuckled softly at their antics.

"Well you have to admit that she looked absolutely exquisite." Drystan looked to Hadrian, his eyes pleading.

"Quite, though I am not romantically interested in her whatsoever."

At this, Bayard's dark eyebrows traveled further north toward his hairline. 'Carina?' he mouthed, and Hadrian gave a small nod. The Frenchman was the only of his acquaintances who knew who his mother was. Indeed, when Hadrian and his mother visited France, they often stayed at Carax manor. Unfortunately, neither of the Morgans knew of Carina's status.

"So she's single, then." Drystan pressed. Hadrian wanted to grimace at the spark of interest in his eyes. Carina was his _mother_ , for Merlin's sake. The look in the blonde's eyes made Hadrian feel slightly nauseous.

"She's not interested, Drystan." Hadrian told the taller Morgan bluntly. "She accompanied me as a favour, and is not in search of a husband."

"Well I'm not in search of a wife," Drystan argued. "But it's been a while since I've bedded anyone, and _Merlin_ , that woman had a luscious pair of—"

Hadrian wrapped a tendril of magic around Drystan's neck, cutting him off. The Morgan heir had been drinking, Hadrian knew by the champagne glass in his now trembling hand, but that was no excuse for this behaviour.

"Please refrain from finishing that sentence." Hadrian said, his voice deceptively calm and genial, belying the deadly glint in his emerald eyes. He didn't intend to irreparably damage the Welshman, or even truly do injury to him; his lashing out was more a reflex than anything else.

Sometimes the people around him forgot that Hadrian was no ordinary youth; that he was vicious, dangerous, and had no qualms about killing someone that made an enemy of him. They forgot what he was capable of, and Hadrian knew as he looked into Drystan's fearful brown eyes, that the eldest Morgan brother remembered now. He remembered that Hadrian could kill him with a flick of his wrist, and without a second thought.

"I...apologise," Drystan choked out, and Hadrian loosened his magic's hold on the man's neck, so that he could speak. "I meant no offence. Please forgive me for my impertinence."

Hadrian released him, and Drystan gasped for air. He did so with as much dignity as could be expected, though several of the witches and wizards nearest them looked over, curious about the Morgan heir's laboured breathing.

“A little harsh, don't you think?” Bayard muttered from beside him, and Hadrian felt the stirrings of guilt deep in his gut.

Hadrian placed a hand gently on Drystan's shoulder, steadying him. He had reacted disproportionately; his anxiety about Carina was making his temper volatile. Now the Morgans would no doubt be afraid of him for some time, which wouldn't be beneficial if worse came to worst with the Grindelwald situation; at times such as these, Hadrian couldn't _afford_ to ostracise any possible allies. 

"No, the fault is mine." Hadrian admitted. "I overreacted, and I apologise for that, though I would implore you to abstain from mentioning Angela in such a way whilst you are in my presence." Carina's alias tasted wrong on his tongue, though he knew it sounded natural.

"Of course, Hadrian." Drystan cracked a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. 

Just then, Hadrian felt an all too familiar presence enter the room. The dark magic was strong and seductive, and the vampire couldn't decide whether he wanted to run from it, attack it, or surrender to the dark promise it held. His eyes glazed over as he turned toward the source of the magic, involuntarily taking a step forward.

Riddle's magic was even darker than he remembered it, though to be fair, the last time Hadrian had seen him, the Peverell heir was disguised as the harmless Julian Pearce, his magic nearly completely suppressed, and thus unable to interact with Riddle's.

By the time Hadrian was able to reign in his now rampant power, he realised that the heir of Slytherin was staring at him. Their eyes locked, and Hadrian was reminded of the first time they had truly met, at the last Gathering. Riddle's deep blue eyes were darker now, verging on violet, but no less striking. The red glint present in them was indicative of the Darkest of magic, and its effect on humans.

Hadrian hadn't ever seen something so beautiful.

It was that thought that shocked Hadrian out of his momentary stupor. _Beautiful?_ That line of thought could most definitely not be allowed to continue.

"Hello, Tom." He greeted with what he hoped passed as a warm smile. Casually, Hadrian reached up to the back of his neck, activating the magic suppressing enchantments in the rune, though not his glamour. He was unwilling to experience the same reaction to skin contact with Riddle now as he had the last time they'd touched, and the vampiric magic in the rune was the most certain method he knew.

Hadrian proffered his hand to Riddle, who greeted him and shook it. Hadrian ended the handshake as quickly as he could while remaining polite, and deactivated the magic suppressing enchantments.

As Riddle greeted Andras and Drystan, who eagerly introduced the half-blood to Bayard, Hadrian was disappointed to notice Renatus approaching from across the ballroom. He didn't intend on lingering.

Hadrian turned to the his acquaintances and Riddle, and prepared to make his exit.

"Well, gentlemen, I am afraid that I must leave you here. I am in dire need of some champagne, and I simply must offer my congratulations to Mr. Delacour on his impeccable taste in decorations." the excuse was a week one, Hadrian knew, but it served its purpose. The Morgan brothers bid him goodbye, Bayard gave him a significant look, and Hadrian was just turning to leave when Riddle called his name.

"Hadrian," he said, and the vampire couldn't help but enjoy the sound of his name on Riddle's lips. "I was actually wondering if I might speak with you alone for a moment. It is a matter of some import."

Riddle had him trapped, and they both knew it. There was no polite way to refuse his request, and Renatus (whom Hadrian _really_ wanted to avoid) was nearly upon them. But he didn't wish to talk to Riddle either. He shot Riddle a dark look that only the Slytherin would be able to decipher, before offering him a quite false smile and graciously acquiescing. He would rather speak with the megalomaniac that knew his darkest secret than with the jealous Renatus Nott.

"Of course, Tom. It would be my pleasure."

.

~.~

.

Frustration and excitement vied for dominance as Peverell agreed to his request with a small smile. Excitement, because this meant that Tom would finally get some answers, and frustration, because for the life of him, Tom couldn't see any insincerity in that smile, though he knew that it certainly must be lingering there somewhere.

Tom studied Peverells face determinedly, attempting to pick apart his mask. He looked for flaws, but found none. None, except for the slight twitch of the vampire's eyes as they flitted toward something over Tom's left shoulder.

Tom chanced a glance in the direction of Peverell's gaze, and was surprised to see none other than Renatus Nott approaching their small party. But before he could properly analyse the implications of such a glance, Tom was somewhat shocked to find himself being pulled across the room by his sleeve. Peverell was _pulling him by his sleeve?_

Well, that made the significance of the vampire's momentary glance toward Nott painfully obvious. Peverell was avoiding his ex-lover. Tom couldn't help but smirk.

He noticed that Peverell was careful not to touch his skin, and that brought another slew of questions to mind. The vampire had completely blocked his magic earlier when they shook hands, and Tom found himself strangely disappointed by that fact.

Peverell lead him under an arched doorway and into a sitting room off of the ballroom. As soon as they were inside, Peverell dropped Tom's sleeve, seemingly unaware that he had ever been holding it. The vampire drew two identical wands from within his robes, and Tom tensed.

Peverell glanced at him, and chuckled. The resonance was melodious and dark, and Tom found that he thoroughly enjoyed the sound of it.

"No need to be so paranoid, I'm just casting privacy wards." the vampire explained, and Tom relaxed slightly as the man began to do just that.

Watching him cast the enchantments was enthralling, and though he cast them nonverbally, Tom recognised the wards as high level silencing ones, as well as one that would act as a sort of barrier, ensuring that no one else entered the doorless room. The magic wove itself around the archway where a door would be, and the walls of the room, but Tom couldn't take his eyes off of Peverell himself. He stood gracefully, his cape rippling as his arms disturbed it with their movements, and his mouth was slightly parted in concentration. Tom's eyes were drawn to his lips, which were full, and pink, and he couldn't help but want to—

"So, what do you want to know?" Peverell's voice cut through Tom's thoughts like a sharp knife, and the heir of Slytherin was disgusted with himself for thinking such thoughts. He was _Lord Voldemort_ , for Merlin's sake. He usually had better control than this.

It didn't matter, though. Now was his opportunity to receive some answers. He looked over to Peverell, who was standing to his side and stowing his wands into the folds of his golden robes.

"What are you, exactly, and why do you hide it?"

Peverell's countenance was stony, though there was a light in his eyes that Tom found thoroughly unsettling. The vampire's lips stretched into a grin.

"Do you really want to know?"

Tom swallowed. Did he? Whatever Peverell was hiding, it was dangerous, and he surely didn't like the expression on the vampire's face. It was almost...predatory.

"Yes," he answered. He wanted to know. Peverell's face became blank, but Tom could see the war raging in his eyes. Was he debating what to tell Tom? Whether or not to be truthful?

"I want a Wizard's Oath." the words were spoken so softly that Tom nearly missed them.

"A what?" Peverell couldn't be serious. One didn't just _swear_ Wizard's Oaths. They weren't quite as, well, _deadly_ , as an Unbreakable Vow, but still. "You want a _what?_ "

"I want a Wizard's Oath from you that you will not speak of my...condition, or of any of the information I am about to impart, to anyone other than myself. In return, I will do the same regarding your Horcrux, the Camber of Secrets, and the girl you murdered."

Tom's mind was reeling. How did Peverell know _so much?_

"You really know more than you ought," Tom muttered, mostly to himself.

"It's a necessity, for me." the vampire smiled wanly, revealing fangs.

Tom damned his curiosity. This was unwise. This was so, _so_ unwise, and yet he couldn't help it. He knew he would likely regret this, but...

"Fine. A Wizard's Oath."

Peverell's smile turned into a full-blown grin, and Tom resisted the urge to shift nervously. Instead, he extended both hands in front of him, palms up. Peverell lowered his own hands cautiously, almost reluctantly. Tom wondered why, until their skin met. Then he remembered.

 _Oh_.

This was definitely stronger than the last time. _He's not suppressing his magic,_ Tom's mind supplied, but the thought was lost amidst the waves of frighteningly strong pleasure rolling through his body, emanating from where his hands were now tightly gripping Peverell's. Tom looked into the vampire's eyes, and this time, they were not blank. No, the turbulence of the emotions in those eyes was so profound that it took Tom's breath away. Of course, that could also have been attributed to the magic, which was twining together around them, dancing almost.

Peverell's eyes were dark and hungry, and Tom knew that his must be glowing red. He wanted to let go of Peverell's hands, but he couldn't bear to. _Why are we touching?_ He wondered, and then, _Why weren't we touching before?_

Tom fought for control of his thoughts, because he couldn't control his magic. The Oath wouldn't be valid if it wasn't sworn with the entirety of their power.

Peverell seemed to be fighting the same battle, for his teeth were clenched, and Tom could see pearly beads of sweat glistening on his pale brow. At some point, the vampire's glamour had dropped completely, for his skin was far too white for a human, and his fangs glinted as he hissed something unintelligible that sounded almost like Parseltongue, but couldn't possibly be.

"Do you, Tom Marvolo Riddle, swear to not speak or communicate in any way, the secret of my vampirism or any of the information I impart to you whilst in this room, to anyone other than me?" the words were strained, Peverell's usually smooth voice rough with the effort to remain in control of himself.

"I swear," Tom answered. "Do you, Hadrian...?"

"Cassius." the vampire bit out, "My middle name is Cassius."

Tom nodded. "Do you, Hadrian Cassius Peverell, swear to not speak or communicate in any way, the circumstances surrounding the opening of the Camber of Secrets and subsequent death of Myrtle Booth, and my involvement in them, the secret of my Horcrux, and any of the information I impart to you whilst in this room, to anyone other than me?"

Peverell's raised an eyebrow at the last part. "I swear."

Their magic swelled around them, and Tom let out an involuntary gasp as he felt some of the vampire's magic enter into his chest, binding with his own. He knew that this was supposed to happen, as it was part of the oath, but that didn't make it an any less shocking sensation.

Between them, their hand's were trembling. Tom couldn't tell whether it was his hands or Peverell's that were shaking, though. Probably both.

The magic completed it's swirling and blending, and for a moment, the two just stood there in silence, staring at each other.

It was Hadrian that remembered himself first, releasing Tom's hands gently and sinking into a velvet upholstered armchair in the sitting room. The heir of Slytherin followed his lead, seating himself gracefully in a chair next to the vampire's.

They sat in silence for what could have been seconds or hours, before Tom decided to move on with his questioning.

"What are you?" he asked, deciding to ignore whatever had just happened with their magic.

Peverell seemed almost grateful for the question. No doubt he didn't want to think too much about the peculiar reaction either.

"I am a vampire; a born vampire." Tom nodded. He had guessed as much.

"Why do you hide your nature?"

"Grindelwald is searching for me. I do not wish to be found." the vampire replied bitterly, and Tom wondered what the entire story was. Perhaps, in time, he would find out.

"Why?"

"Why is Grindelwald searching for me, or why don't I wish to be found?" the side of Hadrian's lip quirked up in a smirk.

"Both," Tom replied.

"I'm not...ordinary," the Peverell heir began. Tom raised a sardonic eyebrow. That much was obvious. "I mean, I'm not ordinary, even by vampire standards. My parents were Cassius Peverell and Anastasia de Thaneto, both born vampires. I am the first of my kind; the only child ever begat of two born vampires. To my knowledge, I am the most powerful vampire to ever live."

Tom stared at Peverell, astonished. The vampire didn't meet his eyes, but rather continued on.

"When I was born, Grindelwald was a threat barely visible on the horizon, and yet he was quite insistent on acquiring me, to use me as a weapon in this war. My parents tried to protect me, but they were eventually hunted down and killed, but not before my mother hid me away in a muggle orphanage.

"I was adopted when I was six years old, I was raised and educated by another born vampire, one who knew my parents. Now, Grindelwald has found that I am alive, and is searching for me. I wish not to assist the murderer of my parents."

Tom sat in stunned silence for some time. He knew that Peverell was hiding something, but he never guessed it to be anything like this. This was...This was greater than anything Tom could have imagined.

"Do not let the leniency of the Wizard's Oath deceive you," Peverell spoke into the silence. Tom looked over to him and met cold, hard eyes. "If you tell a soul, I will not hesitate to kill you in the most gruesome way I know." he flashed his fangs threateningly.

Tom refused to be intimidated by the vampire. Instead, he gazed back at Peverell with an equally stony face.

"I know."

After that, Peverell asked Tom questions, which Tom answered honestly. After finding out the Peverell heir's secret, Tom was only slightly hesitant to reveal several details about the Chamber and the murder, though he left out his plans to make more Horcruxes.

They spoke for what felt like hours, but was really only about one, and Tom found that he actually enjoyed Peverell's conversation. He was quite an improvement to the usual company Tom kept, as although his Knights of Walpurgis were chosen from the most adept and capable students Hogwarts had to offer, Hadrian was better. More intelligent. Perhaps even as intelligent as Tom himself.

Later, after they had been talking for quite a while, and the moon and stars were visible outside of the large window in the back of the sitting room, Peverell asked the question that Tom had been avoiding all night.

"Tom," he started uncertainly, and the Slytherin heir looked at him curiously.

"Yes?" his tone was serious, mirroring the vampire's own.

Hesitantly, Hadrian lifted a pale hand from where it rested, folded in his lap. With slow, deliberate movements, he reached out toward Tom, his hand coming to a halt near the half-blood's face. Tom remained still, looking into the vampire's bright green eyes, silently giving the vampire permission to touch him. Slowly, tentatively, the tips of Hadrian's fingers, and then, his entire palm, came to rest on the side of Tom's face, gently cupping his cheek.

Waves of the now familiar pleasure swept through him, and Tom let his eyes flutter shut.

"What is this?" Hadrian whispered, his voice as awed as it was soft.

Tom opened his eyes to meet Peverell's, green clashing with red, and reached out his own hand, laying it on the column of Hadrian's neck. Tom could feel the vampire shiver under his touch.

"I don't know," Tom spoke quietly. He wasn't resisting the strange pull anymore, and it was wonderful.

Hadrian opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by a small gasp, alerting them to someone's presence outside of the room. Tom's head snapped in the direction of the sound, just in time to see someone with blue robes and brown hair vanish from view.

"Renatus," Hadrian sighed defeatedly. " _Dammit_."

Tom pulled away from the Peverell heir, and the vampire did the same from him.

"I suppose I should go talk to him." Peverell rose to his feet, stretching his arms above is head. Tom took in the sight appreciatively, allowing his eyes to rove over Hadrian's slim torso and toned shoulders, visible through the gold of his robes.

"That you should. You can't hide forever." Hadrian winced, and Tom immediately regretted his tactless words. "I didn't mean...I apologise."

"No," the vampire smiled sadly at him, "It's true. I _can't_ hide forever. Neither from Nott nor from anyone else."

Peverell strode toward the arched entrance to the sitting room, waving a hand in farewell to Tom. Quickly, before he could miss his opportunity, Tom stood too, and called out to him.

"Hadrian!" the vampire turned around at the sound of his name, a quizzical quirk to his eyebrow.

"Why a Wizard's Oath?" Tom asked, coming to stand beside the Peverell heir.

"What do you mean?"

"Why not an Unbreakable Vow?" he queried, "You said yourself that you would kill me if I told anyone; why not have me swear an Unbreakable Vow, and be done with it?"

Hadrian sighed, and ran a hand through his elegantly tousled hair.

"I am a vampire, Tom. I am, essentially, immortal. If _you_ broke an Unbreakable Vow, it would kill you, and you wouldn't be able to be resurrected because I am the only one who knows of your Horcrux, and if you betrayed me, I definitely wouldn't help you. If _I_ broke an Unbreakable Vow, nothing would happen to me. I'd be fine. I asked you to swear a Wizard's Oath because we will both suffer the same consequences."

Hadrian's eyes locked with Tom's seriously, watching him for a reaction. Tom held his features in an expression of polite interest, although in truth he was surprised. That was...considerate. Peverell didn't have to do that. If he hadn't told Tom, he wouldn't have known, and probably would have been willing to swear an Unbreakable Vow.

"I...Thank you," he told the vampire, and he meant it.

"You're welcome." as Hadrian turned to leave, Tom reached out, halting him with a hand on his shoulder, careful not to touch his skin.

"What is it?" the Peverell heir asked when Tom hesitated.

"...How can a vampire be killed?"

Hadrian tensed, and Tom feared the worst. Calculating green eyes bore into him, and Tom felt utterly exposed.

"With a stake through their heart." the vampire's voice was cold, and he reached up to carefully remove Tom's hand from his shoulder. He left without another word.

.

~.~

.

"Renatus," he called, walking swiftly toward the retreating figure.

The Nott heir spun on the spot, his eyes blazing.

"You!" the brunette growled, and stalked threateningly to where Hadrian was standing. People around them turned to see the cause for the disturbance, and Hadrian very nearly groaned. The last thing he needed was for Renatus to cause a scene.

"Come, let us speak in private." Hadrian firmly grasped Nott's upper arm, dragging the Nott heir after him in the direction of the room where he had just spoken to Riddle, which was luckily not far away.

"Don't _touch_ me!" Renatus wrenched his arm away from Hadrian. The vampire looked at him questioningly. Why was he behaving like this?

Nott shoved him into the room, throwing a few privacy wards into place before he turned and glared at Hadrian.

"What's wrong with you, Renatus?" the vampire asked cooly, trying to let none of his distaste show in his expression.

"What's wrong with me? _What's wrong with me?"_ Nott drew himself up to his full height, and stalked minatorily closer to Hadrian until he was standing so that the vampire had to look up at him. It was the first time that Hadrian noticed that Renatus was taller than he was. Although it was only by a few centimetres, it was enough to make Hadrian feel decidedly uncomfortable.

He lifted his hands up to Nott's chest, and pushed him back slightly. He wouldn't back away (surely, such an action would be interpreted as submission), but he didn't want to be quite so close to an angry dark wizard.

"Yes, I believe that was my question." he replied cooly.

"Nothing is wrong with me." Renatus spat, his usually handsome face twisted into a fierce scowl while his once kind eyes flashed menacingly.

"Then _what_ , pray tell, is bothering you so?" Hadrian asked. He was beginning to grow impatient.

"Merlin, don't act so bloody innocent! _You_ are bothering me. You act like you don't know what you do to me, but I _know_ that you're just trying to torment me."

Hadrian was bewildered. What on earth was Renatus going on about?

"Dammit, Hadrian! What did I ever do to deserve this?"

"Deserve _what_ , Renatus? What do you mean?" but Nott didn't seem to be listening. He ignored Hadrian, continuing on his rant.

"Riddle, Hadrian? _Riddle?_ After all that I told you about him? After you acted like you _cared_?"

"What in Merlin's name are you talking about?" Hadrian said, perplexed.

"What am I talking about? I'm talking about you _fucking_ the next Dark Lord!"

Hadrian was shocked. How did Renatus manage to come to this conclusion? Fucking... _Riddle?_ Absolutely not. No.

"I'm not involved with him, Renatus."

"Like hell you aren't! I felt you two earlier, you know, after you left to 'talk'. I bet the whole bloody south of _France_ felt it when you two were going at each other."

 _What?_ Why would Nott think— Oh. The way their magic had reacted to the Wizard's Oath. Renatus didn't know about the Oath, though, so he thought that the magic had been a result of them...Merlin, how did this situation get so convoluted?

"No, Renatus," he chuckled, "We weren't having sex. We really _were_ just talking. Sometimes, our magic simply reacts strangely to each other's, and—"

"Then how do you explain the touching? I saw you _fondling_ each other's faces earlier. How do you explain the way he looks at you? The way you look at him? You never looked at _me_ like that, that's for sure."

Hadrian was shocked. He didn't know what to say; how to explain. For how did you explain that sort of magical connection to someone that couldn't experience anything even remotely similar? Did he even _have_ to explain? He didn't owe Nott anything. But then again, the pureblood _could_ cause trouble...

"Look, Renatus, I'm telling you that I'm not involved with Tom, so—"

" _Tom,_ is it? _Tom?_ How many lovers do you have, Hadrian?"

"How many...what?" what was he going on about now?

"Last Yule, when I firecalled you. The girl in the fireplace. She didn't even _deny_ it!"

"No. Definitely not. Renatus, she isn't my—"

"Then what about the girl you brought here last night?" Nott took hold of Hadrian's shoulders, his fingers bruising as he shook him. " _You brought her back to your room_. She isn't even _here_ tonight. Did you ditch her too? Make her think that you cared before leaving her? Time to move on to the next one, is it? You're nothing but a filthy _slut_ , Hadrian, no better than a whore, and that's all that you're good for."

Hadrian's magic flared. He didn't want to hurt Nott, but the pureblood was making it quite difficult. Hadrian refused to suffer such insolent and fallacious allegations.

"I'm—" Hadrian's words caught in his throat as he became aware of a harsh burning on his left wrist. He forgot Renatus, shoving the pureblood away from him and hurriedly pushing back his sleeve. There, just above his own, Carina's bracelet was glowing. It grew hotter and hotter, and _what did this mean?_

 _'It's tied to my magic,'_ the words echoed in his head, words from a time long ago, words that he remembered clearly, as it was Carina who had spoken them.

But if it was tied to her magic...

"No," he whispered. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Hadrian was aware of a stinging pain, of blood running down the side of his face, of looking up from the ground as Nott slapped him sharply. When had he fallen?

It didn't matter, though. He needed to get to Carina. That was all that mattered. But he couldn't stand. _Why can't I stand?_ He wondered, and then he became aware of sharp teeth biting his soft lips, of a harsh tongue demanding entrance to his mouth, of rough hands tightening around his throat, bruising his pale skin even as he confusedly tried to work out what was happening. A knee was forced between his legs, and _Oh, Renatus, I thought you were better than this. You know me, Renatus, you know what I am capable of. This won't end well for anyone._

Nails scraped against his skin, leaving angry red marks as fumbling fingers tore at his robes, exposing the creamy planes of his chest and greedily stroking up and down his sides. Hadrian tried to push Nott away, to strike him, to escape from the offending hands, but his wrists were pinned to the floor with what must have been some Dark version of a sticking charm, and although Hadrian tried to gather his magic to him, he found that through the burning of Carina's bracelet, he couldn't remember how.

He struggled in silence, mute even as the buttons holding his robes closed were dissolved completely, and a wandering hand found its way around to his back, drifting steadily lower as Hadrian twisted and jerked and tried to rid himself of the affliction that had once been his lover. And damn, if he didn't feel helpless. The so-called most powerful vampire ever to exist, and here he was, pinned to the floor, being violated by someone he'd once called a friend while the bracelet on his wrist _burned_.

It was as though his mouth had forgotten how to speak, though his wordlessness could also have been attributed to the angry lips descending upon his own, and _I can't breath! Stop! Get_ away _from me, you bastard, I need to get to her_ now!

Cruel hands, hands that had once brought him pleasure, but now only begat a cold foreboding, flipped Hadrian onto his stomach. He struggled, tried to wriggle out of his grasp, but it was for naught. 

“Stop fighting me, Hadrian, you know you want this.” Nott's voice was grating, and the vampire very nearly flinched at its proximity, because _No, I don't want this, you fool._

And then Renatus's weight was gone.

Hadrian tried to lift himself from the ground, but found himself still restrained. He lifted his head, but almost immediately, his face was being pressed down against the floor. Not so immediately, however, that the vampire didn't have a second to glance around him, to find his assailant, who was kneeling close to him, undoing the button of the dark trousers the pureblood wore beneath his blue robes.

Hadrian felt cold, acute fear coil deep in his stomach. This was actually _going to happen_. This was honestly, irrevocably going to _happen,_ if he didn't do something to stop it. He wanted nothing more than to lash out, but forced himself to calm down and think logically. He couldn't escape from Nott with brute force, as he was restrained, so obviously he would have to use some other method. Magic? Perhaps. If only he could calm himself enough that he could get ahold of it. The vampire closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath and digging deep within his core to find the familiar spark that he hoped would be able to get him out of this situation. It had to. 

Sightless as he was, with his face being held to the floor, Hadrian was desperately aware of the feel of silk against his skin as his robes were pushed off of his shoulders, tearing and exposing his back. He felt every touch as Nott's brutal hands began to push down his trousers.

Hadrian couldn't afford to wait; he had to save himself. He couldn't stand by and allow Nott to defile him this way. Delving deep within himself, he felt it; his magic was finally, thankfully, responding to his call. Slowly, as though afraid of scaring it away, Hadrian began to gather his magic to him with every intention of getting Nott _off_ of him.

But suddenly, the heavy body pressing him to the ground was gone. Gentle hands turned him over, cradled his head and wiped the blood from his face. He could feel the spell rendering him subdued lift.

 _"Hadrian,"_ Riddle said, "Hadrian, are you alright? Can you hear me?" Hadrian looked up into eyes that were a brilliant red, sparking with anger and something else, and tried to nod.

"No time," he mumbled, his magic putting out the candles which illuminated the sitting room. They were shrouded in darkness, now, invisible from the ballroom.

Riddle looked worried, and Hadrian thought that the half-blood must assume that he'd gone mad.

By way of explanation, Hadrian pushed up his left sleeve, hoping that Tom would understand the significance of the fading silver bracelet. He'd explained the basic concept to him, though not whom he'd received the bracelet from. As far as Tom knew, they were more for identification than anything else.

Comprehension dawned in Tom's eyes.

"No time," Hadrian said again. He grasped the fading bracelet, and wished to be with Carina. The portkey activated, whisking both the vampire and the half-blood away into the night.

.

~.~

.

They landed on a dark street, cobblestones digging into their backs as they both lay sprawled on the ground. Tom was bewildered. Where were they? Anger and adrenaline pumped through his veins, the fury he'd felt when he'd seen Nott touching Hadrian still fresh in his mind.

~.~

_Blood dripped down the vampire's face, and his eyes were unfocused as Nott slapped him harshly. Once. Twice. Tom drew his wand, dismantling the wards as quickly as he could, but not quickly enough. Nott crushed his lips to Hadrian's, biting, devouring as he cut off the vampire's air supply with his hands. His fingers traveled downward, then, ripping finely tailored golden robes in order to find the smooth, pale skin underneath. Hadrian was struggling, Tom could see it just as clearly as he could see Nott's hands, which turned Hadrian onto his stomach and traveled down his lightly muscled back._

_And finally, the wards fell._

_Tom blasted the monster away from Hadrian, who was looking around confusedly. How_ dare _Nott touch what was his? Tom kneeled next to the bloodied figure, turning the vampire so that he was laying on his back, and bringing Hadrian's head to rest in his lap as he smoothed away blood, but no tears._

_~.~_

Tom shook off the memory, and looked around him. Peverell was running, too quickly for any human, toward the prone figure of a woman in the distance. The heir of Slytherin rose to his feet and followed, hastening as fast his human legs could carry him, which was faster than most. Being a quick runner had been one of his saving graces in his years at the orphanage, and it was now, too.

When he reached Hadrian, the vampire was crouched beside the woman, who now lay on her back. Long silvery blonde hair was fanned out around her head, and fading golden eyes looked at the black haired man beside her. She was the most beautiful woman Tom had ever seen, even with her bloodied fangs and the scratches and bruises adorning her pale face. She couldn't be any older than seventeen, by the way she looked, but Tom knew now that appearances could be deceiving.

Her long silken dress was soaked in blood, a shining silver stake protruding from her chest.

_'How can a vampire be killed?'_

_'With a stake through their heart.'_

She was still alive, though, Tom noticed. One of her small, delicate hands was gripping Peverell's larger one, and she whispered in a language that Tom recognised as Latin, though he understood very few words. The one he heard most frequently was 'Hadrian', repeated over and over again. She spoke urgently, her breath coming in short gasps, as Hadrian whispered back, shaking his head.

Tom felt like he was intruding, but he couldn't leave. It was a sight so sad, so painful, that he couldn't look away. Hadrian's magic swirled through the air, and Tom drew his in so that they wouldn't touch. This wasn't for him; this was a lamentation for the beautiful, blood soaked woman that Hadrian held as if she were the only thing precious in the world.

 _Who is this woman, whom Hadrian holds so gently? Who is this woman, who speaks in a language long dead to men and wizards alike? Who is_ Hadrian _, who presses a gentle kiss to her forehead as her eyes fall shut, closing forever?_

Tom stood in silence as the Peverell heir cradled the woman to his chest, her body limp in his arms. He didn't dare so much as breath, for fear of disturbing the grief that hung in the air like some poisonous cloud of smoke.

After some time, Hadrian hooked an arm around the woman's waist, and another beneath her knees, and lifted her with him as he stood.

"Not here," Hadrian said quietly, and Tom noticed that his voice was unsteady. "Not in some fucking muggle street in Bulgaria."

The vampire held out his hand to Tom, supporting the woman's body with magic. Tom drew his power even further inside of himself before grasping the bloodied appendage. He wouldn't subject the Peverell heir to that kind of torment at a time like this.

Fading was an entirely new experience for Tom, one that he would likely have enjoyed quite a lot, were it not for the unfortunate circumstances. Fading was like being taken apart in one place, and reassembled in another. It felt like walking out into a windy day, with none of the discomfort caused by apparating. You were simply there, and then you were not.

They appeared in front of a large manor, one that looked to have been abandoned. Hadrian didn't move to enter the building, though. Instead he lead Tom around to the back of the house, where a small grove of cherry trees stood. There, he laid the woman down on the soft ground, drew his wands, and began to transfigure blades of the soft green grass that grew in the area into dry logs. Tom did the same. When they had collected a sizeable pile, the vampire held up his hand, and Tom halted.

He wondered why he was doing this; what had possessed him to attempt to save the Peverell heir from Nott's advances; why he hadn't been angry upon being transported somewhere unknown by someone he barely knew, and then finding the body of a murdered woman. Why was he here now, laying logs in a careful pattern to create what he guessed to be a pyre of some sort?

No answers were forthcoming, but he continued in his self-assigned task nonetheless. When the logs were piled high, Peverell halted him with a hand on his arm. The vampire levitated the woman to lie on top of the wood. Tom backed away, moving to sit on the grass far enough away that he wouldn't be burnt by the flames he suspected to come.

And come they did. Hadrian set fire to the wood with a whispered spell and a hand pressed to the logs, and the pyre came ablaze with fire and light.

As Hadrian came to sit beside him on the grass, Tom gazed at the flames, at the way they danced and undulated and crackled, and licked at the body perched amongst them. It had a sad sort of beauty to it, and Tom thought that if he ever _did_ die, he would like to be consumed in fire like the beautiful, strange, woman whom he had never known, but wished he had.

Long after the flames had died away, when the sky was painted in shades of pink and orange and the stars were fading with the night, Tom spoke the only words he'd spoken since the Gathering.

"Who was she?" he asked softly, his gaze remaining fixed on the horizon.

"She was Carina Valavicius," Hadrian replied, looking off into the distance. "She was my mother, my best friend, and the only person I've ever loved."

Tom nodded, though he didn't know whether or not the man sitting beside him saw it. They watched the sun climb into the sky as the ashes of Carina Valavicius smoked.


	10. Complications

**Complications**

.

~.~

.

" _Convictions are more dangerous foes of truth than lies."_

-Friedrich Nietzsche

.

~.~

.

_Mon cher Hadrian,_

_I would wish you 'Happy Birthday,' but I fear that such a remark would be both trite and cruel after the death of your mother. Nevertheless, I hope that you are somewhere safe and that your seventeenth finds you as well as you could be, considering the grim circumstances. I must offer my condolences for Carina's death. She was like a second mother to me, growing up, and I'll miss her dearly. I'm sure the loss I feel is nothing compared to what you must be going through, but my heart aches all the same._

_While you haven't told me much (a cautious measure which I respect, despite my burning curiosity), I am adept enough at reading the signs of discord within the Dark community to know that you are in trouble. Whatever you're running from, please trust that I'll not betray you. I have only ever wished the best for you, my friend, and if you need help, please don't hesitate to ask._

_I spoke to Drystan and Andras Morgan this morning, and they said that you haven't returned the letters they've been sending. I am concerned about you, Hadrian. I hope that you reply to this letter, though if the rumours are true and you are on the run, I suppose that I'll be lucky if it even reaches you. The owl I've sent it with's name is Adélaïde. She isn't the usual family owl, but she is the best tracker. She has yet to return with an undelivered letter, and I have faith that she won't fail me now. You can reply to me via owl, of course, or drop by my home. I have moved out of my parents' manor, now, and am living in a small flat in Paris. I have faith that should you wish to find my residence, you would be more than capable of doing so, but I shall give you my address regardless:_

_Monsieur Bayard Carax_

_Appartement 37, Bâtiment 2_

_718 rue de la Tombe-Issoire_

_75014 Paris_

_France_

_It's a Muggle address, I know, but they aren't as bad as most purebloods make them out to be, the Muggles. They're different from us, yes, but not any more ignorant than we ourselves are, and certainly no less intelligent. Their artists and musicians are particularly awe-inspiring, and I often find myself wishing that I could play an instrument. Do you still play the piano, Hadrian? I remember that you used to, when we were children. You were quite good, I recall._

_Suffice to say that my parents don't approve of my living situation. I'm paying the rent myself, though, so there isn't much they can do. It's a humble abode (although I must admit that it is quite a lot larger inside than is on the outside (Ah, the joys of magic)) situated just across from the entrance to Wizarding Paris. Muggle France is miserable right now, thanks to the war, but the Wizarding district is all but unaffected. Sometimes it makes me sick, seeing how oblivious most of our kind are to the life going on all around them. I've never lived in the Muggle world before, and I've found that I sorely underestimated its size. There are just so many Muggles, Hadrian! Now, more than ever, I wonder at Grindelwald's sanity. Who could dream of subduing so many millions?_

_Surely, only a madman._

_I suppose I should mention that I'm sharing the flat with my cousin, Marius. I don't think you've met him; he's my aunt's son, on my mother's side, and has lived in Morocco with his father until recently. They had a falling out, but it's not my place to say more. I think you would like him. Marius, that is. He's quiet until you get to know him (I suppose that gene must run in the family), but a quite pleasant conversationalist. He reminds me of you, if I am to be honest._

_If you ever need a place to go, know that you are welcome here in the Carax-Mdaghri household (Mdaghri is Marius's last name—it's Moroccan). Our door is always open (metaphorically, of course—in actuality, there are several wards, but I don't doubt you'll be able to get past those), and most of our neighbours are Muggles, so you wouldn't have to worry about being recognised if you came here._

_You don't need to do everything alone, Hadrian. Asking for help doesn't make you weak._

_I've enclosed a gift for your birthday. It's a watch, of course. As you know, it is traditional to give a wizard a watch when he comes of age, and I figured that with Carina gone...Well, I know we're not blood relations, but I've always thought of you as a brother. I hope that you like the watch; I saw it at a Muggle antique market a few months ago, and thought of you. Take care, Hadrian._

_Je t'embrasse,_

_Bayard Carax_

~.~

The pocket-watch was gold, heavy in Hadrian's palm. It was embossed with a single Fleur de Lis, and the shining metal bespoke years of meticulous care. When he flipped it open, the ivory face returned his stare; its small Roman numerals seemed to wink in the light. Hadrian slipped it into his pocket along with Bayard's letter, and the weight was comforting where it rested against his leg.

Bayard was a good friend. _The_ good friend, really. Hadrian didn't trust him completely—he didn't trust _anyone_ completely—but Bayard was loyal to a fault, and had been since Hadrian met him the summer before third year; Hadrian wouldn't jeopardise the Frenchman by going to his home.

Switzerland. He would go to Switzerland. There, Grindelwald's men wouldn't find him. There, he could begin his training in earnest.

Hadrian ducked out of the alleyway in which he had been lurking as he received Bayard's owl, and hurried through the busy streets of muggle Milan, glamoured but paranoid nonetheless. The air was heavy and thick with the late July heat, and a drop of sweat rolled down his cheek, trickling to its destination under the collar of his button-up shirt.

For the first time in years, Hadrian Peverell was dressed as a muggle. His wrinkled slacks and worn shirt were testaments to the days he had spent on the run, but did not look out of place in the streets of the city suffering from war. He slouched as he walked, intent on disguising himself to the best of his ability. Even his magic was suppressed, courtesy of the rune residing on the back of his neck.

To the muggles passing him on the pavement, Hadrian appeared little more than a tired, worn young man; perhaps a soldier returned from the war. He certainly looked the part. Dark circles hung like shadows beneath his eyes, whose green depths looked tired and bruised.

But Hadrian was no veteran. No, Hadrian was something much more treacherous. For hidden in his tired and saddened eyes was a determination as vicious and deadly as the vampire himself. A determination to kill, to maim, to harm.

His first victim would be Renatus Nott, for he was a loose end, one that had angered Hadrian greatly with his unwelcome and forceful advances. Before, he had thought to leave the Nott heir alone, but after the Gathering...Well, the pureblood wasn't a liability Hadrian felt like dealing with anymore. Yes, Nott would be the first to go. Not unnecessary killing. Never unnecessary killing. Hadrian wouldn't stand for the death of innocents, of lambs caught in the crossfire of a war between wolves.

But anyone else was fair game. He'd kill as few dark wizards as was possible, for it was not entirely their fault for following the current Dark Lord, but one way or another, Grindelwald would fall. He would die for what he had done to the ones that Hadrian loved. The vampire knew this to be true, for he was determined to do it himself.

He had nothing left to lose. And the most dangerous man is one who is desperate.

Hadrian would have his revenge. But not now. He wasn't some Gryffindor, after all. No, Hadrian would bide his time, wait in the shadows, where he would grow ever more powerful and train himself in magics long forgotten to wizards. And when the time was right, Hadrian would strike.

Until then, he would move around. With an inconspicuous glance toward the muggles bustling around him, Hadrian slipped into a narrow alley. He pressed himself close to the cold bricks of one of the walls, and waited a few moments to make sure that his departure from the street had gone unnoticed. It had.

With a deep breath, Hadrian wrapped himself in the alley's shadows, and faded from sight.

He reappeared near the edge of a lake in Interlaken. Lake Brienz, if he remembered correctly. The water was turquoise, reflecting fading evening sunlight onto the canopies of trees whose branches hung out over the water. It was beautiful.

Hadrian didn't waste much time enjoying the scenery, though. He needed to find a place to settle down before he took a quick detour to England. As he walked, he dropped his glamour. Red hair deepened into his natural black, and he grew in height until he once again stood quite tall. He never used one glamour for too long, and his natural appearance was as good a disguise as any, when one's enemies didn't know what they were looking for.

Hadrian kept moving. Always moving, always traveling. Following the last piece of guidance he'd received from his dear, deceased mother.

~.~

_Carina spoke quickly, her words unconsciously slipping from her lips in Latin, her native language. Her breathing was laborious, hitching in her throat as she inhaled._

_"Hadrian, you must listen to me; you must understand..." she coughed, and blood spattered onto Hadrian's already ruined robes. He grasped his mother's hand, trying desperately to offer some sort of support._

_"Who did this to you, mother? How did this happen?" he was kneeling beside her, gently holding her head and shoulders up from the blood pooled on the ground below her._

" _I knew, Hadrian...I knew that the Dark Lord would kill me tonight." the Peverell heir stared down at her in disbelief, not comprehending her statement for a few seconds. When it sunk in, he was touched with no small amount of betrayal. How could she do this? How could she leave him like this?_

" _Why?" he asked. His voice cracked. Carina's eyes struggled to focus on him, and her hands began to shake._

" _Eventually, Grindelwald would have...found me. And through me, he'd have...found you. I left the Citadel tonight knowing that I would not return...knowing that I would die. And Hadrian, I'd rather die knowing that I was doing so to protect you...than any other way." she smiled sadly at him, and Hadrian felt something deep inside him break. Any anger he'd previously felt toward his mother melted away, coming to settle on Hadrian's own shoulders._ For me? She's dying for me? _No, this couldn't be true. Carina loved him, he knew, but enough to sacrifice herself?_

" _I'm not worth that, Carina. I've never been worth that." his voice was broken. He didn't know whether he wanted to believe his own words or not._

" _No, Hadrian...you underestimate yourself. Your life is worth ten of mine, my dear. More than anyone else's...You must understand, Hadrian, that this world needs you...you must be strong, Hadrian, for me and for your parents...for dark creatures and wizardkind alike...You must be great, my son. You_ will _be great..." she trailed off, and drew in a shaky breath, hanging onto her last moments of life. "Grindelwald must not be allowed to win this war, Hadrian...he holds no regard for creatures like us...not really." Hadrian's eyes were drawn to the silver stake embedded in his mother's chest. No, Grindelwald certainly didn't hold any regard for vampires. And he wouldn't win this war. He wouldn't even survive it. This, Hadrian would ensure._

" _I'll kill him, mother." he whispered. "I'll kill him for what he has done to my parents; to you. For what he would do to me, given the chance."_

_Carina gave him a watery smile. "I know, my dear...My son. You must train. Become stronger; better. While you may be more powerful than he, the Dark Lord has many more years of experience than you, and you must not underestimate his wrath...But you have an advantage" she coughed, more blood spilling from her mouth. Hadrian's heart constricted in pain at the sight of her suffering. "He knows neither your face nor your name...But you do not have long, my dear. You must leave; travel. Do not stay in one place for too long...let not my sacrifice be in vain."_

_"I will do as you say, mother. Grindelwald will not live to see the end of the war."_

_Carina smiled softly as her eyes slid shut, and she released one last quaking breath. Hadrian pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. "I will avenge your death." he promised, but she didn't hear him; Carina Valavicius was dead._

~.~

Interlaken was a small muggle town, but it had grown in recent years. Tourism here was on the rise, though less people had been traveling recently. Instead, the many foreigners in Switzerland were due largely to the muggle War, and the small country's status of armed neutrality in it.

As it was, Interlaken was now a temporary home to many refugees looking to escape the horror of war in the neighbouring countries. It was an ideal place for Hadrian to sequester himself away in. He would be but another foreign face among the masses; a refugee of a different sort. He spoke Swiss German nearly fluently, which was the dialect spoken here and the main reason that he'd chosen Interlaken for the next location in his long chain of hideaways.

He liked to think of it as preemptive running. After all, it was difficult to hit a moving target.

Hadrian strode down the colourful main street, smiling cordially at the passing strangers. After a few short minutes of walking, the vampire found what he was searching for. The pub was noisy even as the sun was barely setting, raucous laughter audible from down the street. Hadrian strode through the open door, pushing past inebriated men that leered at him even as he made his way up to the bar. He elbowed his way into a space between two men seated at the bar, near the bartender, and called out for a flagon of beer. It was his birthday, after all. What better way to celebrate?

The thought was empty, though. Celebration was somewhat meaningless, when he had no one to celebrate with. Even a month after her death, Hadrian missed Carina sorely. Moping about wasn't productive, though. No, he would celebrate his birthday as he wished. There _were_ a few benefits to being seventeen, after all. He was legal now, for instance. He could take his apparition test at the Ministry. He planned to do that later. But first, Hadrian intended to get fully and properly drunk.

The bartender set the tankard down roughly, and some of its amber contents sloshed over the edge and onto the wooden countertop below. Hadrian could care less; he reached for the drink eagerly, and lifted it to his lips, taking a long swig.

As he swallowed, Hadrian became aware that he was being watched. Instinctually, he wanted to tense, but he forced his shoulders to remain relaxed, and his facial expression unaltered.

His worrying was for naught, though, as Hadrian almost immediately realised that the one watching him was merely the muggle man sitting next to him at the bar. The man was attractive enough, though nothing especially noteworthy. He was likely in his late twenties or early thirties, and had golden blonde hair and light blue eyes. Hadrian thought he'd look better if both of those features were dark.

"What brings you here?" the man asked Hadrian, his voice raised to be heard over the din of the laughter and clanking of glasses. He had a slight accent, French probably, and his words were just slightly slurred.

"The desire for alcohol," Hadrian answered cheekily. He knew quite well that the man hadn't been referring to the pub.

"To Switzerland, I mean," the man clarified. Hadrian shrugged.

"A change of scenery, I suppose. And the wish to escape the war with my life and sanity intact." Hadrian told a partial truth. Let the man think that he was fleeing the muggle war. The stranger probably was too.

"You seem a little young to be travelling on your own. Where are you from?" the blonde asked.

"Germany," he replied. He was completely fluent in German, and while he didn't know Germany like he knew France and England, he knew the country well enough that he wouldn't find himself stuck in an awkward situation should the man be familiar with his supposed 'motherland'. "And if I'm old enough to die a target in a war, I am old enough to attempt to save my own life."

The man grimaced understandingly. "You Jewish?" he inquired. Hadrian decided to go out on a limb.

"Homosexual," he responded. Though he had half-suspected it, Hadrian was surprised to see that the man didn't seem disgusted or scandalised by his admission. No, the man's eyes lit up with a spark of interest, and more disturbingly, lust.

 _So the blonde is gay,_ Hadrian thought wryly. Just his luck that the first person he spoke with in Interlaken would be interested in him. At least the bloke was decent looking. Hadrian gulped down another mouthful of beer as the man watched him. The silence grew uncomfortable soon, and the vampire decided to break it with a question of his own.

"So where are _you_ from?"

"France." his suspicions were confirmed.

"And what is it that brings _you_ to Switzerland?" he replied in intentionally accented French. He spoke the language more fluently than English, if he were to be honest, and yet he forced himself to speak too harshly, injecting a not-too-subtle German accent into his speech; he didn't want to seem too remarkable, after all. The man smiled, pleasantly surprised at Hadrian's use of the language.

"My reasons are the same as yours." he replied in his native tongue, his eyes pointedly traveling up and down Hadrian's body. Hadrian raised an eyebrow. Apparently being 'a little young to be travelling on your own' didn't translate to 'too young to make a pass at'.

"I see." Hadrian tipped back his flagon of beer, downing the rest of its contents in a few large swallows.

"Say," the man said, looking slightly nervous and more than slightly predatory. "You want to get out of here? I have a room in the inn next door."

Hadrian narrowed his eyes, ready to brush off the man's offer.

But why _shouldn't_ he go have a bit of fun? Merlin knew that he deserved it. He'd been celibate for months, nearly a _year_ , and here was an opportunity offered up on a silver platter.

"Sure," he replied casually. The blonde smiled smugly and grabbed his wrist, and Hadrian very nearly flinched. _Damn surprising physical contact._ He forced himself to relax, and allowed the man to lead him from the pub and into the inn that was, as promised, next door.

Upon reaching the blonde's small, but relatively tidy, room, Hadrian found himself being hurriedly pulled into a sloppy kiss. The man was unrefined in his drunken state, and Hadrian was slightly repulsed by it. He pushed the thought away, though. He wanted to get this over with. The man was slightly shorter than the vampire, but much more extensively muscled, and Hadrian was easily pushed up against a wall a few minutes later when they were both relieved of their shirts.

The man pressed against him firmly, grinding his hips against Hadrian's growing arousal.

Hadrian tensed. If this was going to happen, he was certainly going to be the one in charge. With speed and strength incongruous with his slim figure, Hadrian switched their positions, so that the blonde man was the one with his back to the wall, and Hadrian the one holding him there. The man frowned, but leaned in to kiss Hadrian again nonetheless. Hadrian wanted to grimace. The man smelt of stale beer and smoke, the stench acrid to his sensitive nose. The vampire thought he mould much prefer the scent of rain and musk, though he couldn't recall where he'd smelt the combination before.

The man pulled back, panting slightly. Hadrian was struck by how unattractive he now found the blonde's light blue eyes. For a second, the image of far darker, far more dangerous, far more _enticing_ eyes came to Hadrian's mind. He blinked in confusion. He was enjoying this encounter less and less as time wore on.

A sudden tapping at the bedroom window caught both of their attention, and Hadrian was grateful for the interruption. But as he glanced in the direction of the soft rapping noise, his relief quickly turned to suspicion and anxiety. Hovering just behind the clear panes was a tawny brown owl, clutching what appeared to be an official-looking envelope in its talons.

"Damn," he muttered, stepping back from the blonde whose name he had no desire to learn. The man sputtered confusedly, but Hadrian ignored him in favour of searching for his wands. He found them in the front pocket of his trousers, and drew one hurriedly.

The nameless man dropped to the floor with a thud as Hadrian's stunner hit him squarely in the chest. He followed up with an 'obliviate', erasing all traces of the man's encounter with Hadrian from his mind. When he was satisfied that the blonde wouldn't be a problem, he carefully made his way over to the window. The owl was still there, pecking impatiently at the glass and flapping its feathered wings. Its golden eyes stared at Hadrian unblinkingly.

He opened the window suspiciously, careful not to touch the owl as it flew into the small room. It shouldn't have been able to find him. He'd warded himself against tracking spells, and no wizard, witch, werewolf, or even _vampire_ should be able to send him a letter without his express permission.

The well-groomed owl dropped its burden onto the wooden floor promptly, and flew away. Upon closer inspection, Hadrian noticed that it was not actually one letter, but two. They bore the same seal, though, stamped in purple wax and depicting two dragons and a set of scales laden with gold. The seal looked familiar, but Hadrian couldn't quite place it. He cast several diagnostic spells at the envelopes, but they came up clean save for standard privacy warding.

With careful, cautious movements, Hadrian bent to retrieve the letters. He braced himself as his fingers closed around the ivory parchment, suspecting the worst despite his diagnostic spells. To his surprise, and great relief, nothing happened. Hadrian hurried to flip them over, but found only his name printed in elaborate characters that bespoke authority.

He broke the seal of the top envelope with his fingernail, and a folded letter slid out. Hadrian unfolded it.

At the top of the parchment, printed in small writing that definitely wasn't written by hand, Hadrian discovered the letter's origins.

_Gringotts Wizarding Bank Britain_

_Diagon Alley, London, England_

_'Fortius Quo Fidelius'_

_Goblin magic,_ Hadrian's mind supplied, _That's how they were able to find me._ He hadn't thought of warding against Goblins, for he knew none, and to his knowledge, none knew him. Hadrian didn't have a vault, and as a matter of fact, had never even entered the bank. Carina had always been the one to deal with finances, and in the past month, Hadrian had been living off of the money he always kept on him for emergencies. He hadn't spent much, as he tended to choose accommodations that weren't exactly lavish, and food didn't cost money when one was a vampire.

His initial fears alleviated, now that he knew the missive was from Gringotts, Hadrian began reading the main text of the letter. It was only a paragraph.

_Dear Mr. Peverell,_

_Your presence is requested for the reading of the will of one Carina Acteon Valavicius at Gringotts Bank, London. As you are the sole beneficiary of Ms. Valavicius's will, your presence is requested at your earliest convenience, but no scheduled appointment will be necessary._

_Deepest condolences,_

_Ragnok, Head Goblin of Gringotts Bank, Gringotts Britain_

Hadrian stared at the letter with a slight frown, Carina's death still fresh in his mind. He hadn't thought about her will, though in hindsight, he should have figured that a woman as wealthy as his mother wouldn't have passed on without some thought to her finances. It was only logical. He would go to Gringotts soon, perhaps even today, as he had to go to London anyway to obtain an Apparition License from the Ministry.

He tossed the letter into the air, incinerating it before it had a chance to reach the floor. Hadrian had learned long ago to leave no evidence of any legal correspondence. When the ashes were vanished from the wooden floorboards of the unconscious blonde man's room, Hadrian turned his attention to the second letter.

The envelope was identical to the first, save for the slight irregularity of the wax Gringotts seal. The letter, however, was quite different.

_Dear Mr. Peverell,_

_As of the 31 July, 1944, you are officially an adult according to wizarding law and are therefore granted full access to the Peverell vault, vault 867, at Gringotts Wizarding Bank. The Peverell vault is located in the Gringotts Britain branch of our worldwide financial institution, which can be found in Diagon Alley, London. As the Peverell vault is a High Security Vault, a blood sample will be required to verify the validity of your position in the Peverell line._

_Sincerely,_

_Ragnok, Head Goblin of Gringotts Bank, Gringotts Britain_

Hadrian's eyebrows had risen as he read the letter, and were now positioned quite loftily on his forehead, indicative of his surprise. This was certainly a shock, though a far more pleasant one than the reading of Carina's will. Hadrian quickly burnt the second letter, still slightly stunned by his newly acquired information.

As he vanished the ashes, the last remaining trace of his presence in the room, Hadrian observed his surroundings. The inn was fairly nice. Perhaps he would even return to get a room of his own after he visited London. The vampire levitated the blonde man so that he was laying on the bed in the room. When he awoke, he would simply figure that he'd been sleeping, and judging by the fact that he was quite drunk, Hadrian figured that the man wouldn't question the lack of memories for the past few hours.

Hadrian contemplated where he should go first. Probably the Ministry, though he was far more eager to visit Gringotts. While Gringotts was Goblin-run, and therefore probably remained open late into the night (as Goblins, like vampires, had little real need for sleep), the Ministry closed promptly at seven, which was—Hadrian cast a quick tempus, which revealed the local time to be nearly eight o'clock—soon.

Hadrian tapped his muggle trousers with his wand, turning them into a fine black tweed. He picked his wrinkled button-up off of the floor, and transfigured it into one of finely polished cotton. His light jacket was banished in favour of a conjured long purple cloak, and his scuffed shoes turned to black leather. He needed to visit the Ministry of Magic without any major glamour, as full access to his magic was needed for any contracts or licenses to be legal, and intended to look decent in case he happened upon anyone important.

He glanced at the mirror which stood in the small room's corner, examining his reflection. Hadrian had to admit that he had looked better. He hadn't fed in nearly three days, far longer than was strictly safe, and he was looking worse for wear. His skin was too pale, though not so much so as it was without his customary glamour, and his hair was unkempt. The vampire ran a hand through his dark locks, combing them into an acceptable state of unruliness, and cast a small glamour to obscure the dark circles under his eyes. Now, looking somewhat acceptable, Hadrian turned from the mirror, stepping further into the shadows of the corner. He faded from the small room in the inn, leaving no trace.

.

~.~

.

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore was nothing if not devoted to winning the war, but as he stepped from the Minister's office and into one of the many bustling hallways of the British Ministry of Magic, he couldn't help but feel slightly defeated. This was his third meeting with Minister McLaggen in as many days, and no progress had been made.

Britain had already declared enmity to Germany in both the muggle and wizarding wars, and raids had been becoming more and more frequent in the summer months. Albus sighed, walking toward the main atrium. Though the fact that the dark forces were becoming stronger as the war wore on was widely known (no doubt contributing to the rising numbers in their ranks), Albus was at a loss over what to do. Aurors were scarce in days such as these, and students newly out of Hogwarts were hardly eager to sign up.

Fear was spreading among the people of Britain, igniting in the hearts of even the bravest of Light wizards. Just yesterday Armando Dippet had firecalled Albus, questioning whether it would be wise to close Hogwarts completely. After the events of the previous year, Albus had his doubts regarding the safety of the school, but if the 'safest place in Britain' was declared too dangerous for children, people would panic. And a panicked population was the last thing this nation needed at the moment.

What the nation did need at the moment, what the _world_ needed at the moment, was for Grindelwald to be defeated. The thought made Albus's heart ache in a combination of guilt and sadness. After all, Dumbledore was the obvious candidate to defeat the Dark Lord, but how could he possibly face his estranged lover in such a way?

The truth was that he still loved Gellert, despite all the despicable deeds the man had done and the fact that he was a dark wizard. It had been _so many years_ since the summer after Albus had graduated, since the time when he and Gellert had made their naïve and great and terrible plans for the world. And in all those years, Albus hadn't let go of his love for the German man, just as Gellert had held onto the idea of muggle subjugation and his search for the Deathstick. He'd found it, now, the Deathstick. The unbeatable wand which painted a bloody trail through history.

All the more reason to dread some impending duel in which Dumbledore would be asked to kill his former lover. Albus hated killing regardless of whom it was being killed, but somehow the thought of murdering Gellert, _his Gellert_ even after so much time, struck cold into Albus's aged heart.

It wasn't really him, Albus knew. The Gellert he'd loved was gone now, replaced by a power-hungry Dark wizard. And Dark wizards posed a threat to their fragile society so extreme that Albus very nearly trembled with fear just contemplating the implications of the Dark side winning the war. Dark magic corrupted, ate away at the soul. The creatures of the Dark were vicious, ruthless, not _human_.

Albus had met a decent werewolf or two, but reformed Dark creatures were few and far between. Those that embraced their heritage were dangerous, and Albus dared not imagine a society in which they weren't required to register with the Ministry. Of course, if Gellert won this war, laws regarding the creatures wouldn't likely change much. The Dark Lord was a skilled manipulator, and though he promised the creatures freedom now, Albus knew him well enough to know that he wouldn't share power with anyone, much less subhumans.

And so he met with the Minister. He planned possible strategies and advised the continued operation of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and still he knew that he was merely postponing the inevitable. War would rage until the Dark Lord was defeated, and Albus knew that only he could defeat Gellert. But how many innocent witches and wizards would lose their lives as Albus hid, selfishly attempting to delay the battle that would break his aged heart.

Finally, Albus came to the lift, which he climbed inside along with several Ministry employees. The hardship of war left no one unaffected. Frown lines adorned the faces of people the Transfiguration teacher had once known to be happy, and carefree. People kept their eyes down, too tired, or too afraid, to watch the world around them deteriorate. As head of Gryffindor House, Albus recognised two of the lift's occupants as former students of his.

He greeted them cheerfully, and they responded in kind, though it was only too obvious that their apparent joviality was feigned. Most was, in times like these.

By the time the lift came to a halt at the floor of the Main Atrium, Albus had engaged in conversation with no less than fourteen people, as additional witches and wizards that boarded the lift at various floors were all eager to speak with the figurehead of the light regime. Albus only yearned to return home to Hogwarts. As Deputy Headmaster, he'd sent off the letters to incoming first-years several weeks ago, and the standard beginning-of-term letters to all students had followed shortly thereafter, along with those to prefects and the Head Boy and Head Girl.

The thought brought a frown to the Transfiguration teacher's face. Minerva McGonagall would make a fine Head Girl; one of Albus's lions. She was a spectacular student, specifically in Transfiguration, which the head of Gryffindor House found especially pleasing. Someday, the girl would likely make a wonderful professor. When Albus stopped teaching, of course.

No, it wasn't the Head Girl that made Albus anxious. It was the Head Boy, Tom Riddle. There had been no other possible candidate, though Albus had advised against the appointment. The other professors couldn't see past the mask of perfect student, and though it irked him something fierce, Albus could hardly blame them.

After all, if it weren't for the momentary slip Tom had made at their first meeting, Albus would likely have written him off as simply another student from less than ideal living situations. But the boy's sinister nature had leaked through during that first encounter, and combined with his ability to speak Parseltongue, the unfavourable traits of a Dark wizard had been apparent to Albus for many years.

It was hardly uncommon, in Slytherin house, for students to stray from the path of the Light. Unfortunately, though, some wizards had more potential to become evil than others. Albus wondered, sometimes, if perhaps he could somehow have prevented Riddle from learning of his heritage. Surely, if the boy didn't know that he was the heir of Slytherin, the nonsense with the Basilisk wouldn't have occurred. Albus hadn't even bothered to bring that suspicion up to the other professors.

They wouldn't believe him, of course. And why should they? Tom was an incredible actor, as much as it pained Albus to admit it. He easily fooled the other professors, his mask impeccable even for a Slytherin. No, the others would have thought Albus mad, were he to suggest that the most promising student to ever grace the walls of Hogwarts had murdered one of its students.

And he had no proof. Tom Riddle was a Slytherin to the core, and had been thorough in diverting any possible suspicion from himself. And so it was that Riddle would be Head Boy. Though the thought of giving the boy any more power did not sit well with Albus, he had to admit that it wouldn't likely be too much of a change. Riddle already held more sway over the students of Hogwarts than Albus remembered any other student ever possessing.

Albus waved goodbye to the occupants of the elevator as he stepped from its confines and into the Main Atrium. The professor looked around him, recognising many a familiar face. A consequence of his political position was the fact that he was unknown to very few people, and so he tried to make sure that very few people were unknown to him. Very few important people, at least.

He smiled to Eric Munch, who was sitting at the security desk on the left side of the Atrium, registering wands. He remembered Eric as a dedicated, albeit not excessively bright Hufflepuff boy who had graduated two years previously. Usually, wand weighing was left to more practiced witches and wizards, but when the wizard who had previously sat the job was murdered, Eric had been quick to learn, and made up in enthusiasm what he lacked in intelligence.

Eric smiled distractedly at Albus, returning to his post dedicatedly. His strawberry blonde hair and freckles have his round face a youthful innocence, and the Transfiguration teacher was glad that there were still young men such as Eric in these troubling times, men dedicated to their work and the alleviation of Dark magic.

So distracted was Albus by his thoughts that he forgot to watch where he was going, and walked directly into someone walking in the opposite direction.

"I'm ever so sorry, sir. I didn't notice where I was going." the stranger apologised. Albus took in his features with calculating eyes. The youth was tall, and impeccably dressed. He had black hair and pale skin, but his most impressive physical feature was his cold green eyes. All this was lost on Albus, though, for the wizard was busy scrutinising the boy's magic. The magic made him feel slightly nauseous, it was so Dark. And so strong. Albus looked around him, wondering if less powerful witches and wizards felt it.

"The fault was mine." Albus responded slowly, giving himself more time to study the situation.

Indeed, several people seemed to be watching the dark-haired young man. They wouldn't realise what it was that they were feeling, of course, as those unaccustomed to feeling magic rarely did. But they would feel something. An inexplicable draw, a longing to be nearer to him. Such was the extent of the young man's power.

Albus eyed him warily. He'd met his fair share of witches and wizards throughout the course of his career, and few as obviously dangerous as the one standing before him. Gellert was one, though he Albus hadn't realised it at the time, and the other, one who felt oddly similar to the green-eyed man, was Tom Riddle. No good could come of this.

The boy nodded cordially, and stepped around Albus, continuing on his way towards the lift. The sea of people parted for him, and he strode in the direction of his destination with an eerie grace, his cloak swishing about his feet. Albus watched him with a growing sense of dread deep in his gut.

Too-green eyes met Albus's once again before the lift doors closed, blocking the man from sight. The Transfiguration teacher moved quickly, briskly making his way toward the security desk.

"Good afternoon, Eric," he greeted.

"Afternoon, Professor. It's good to see you." the happiness in his eyes was genuine, but Albus had no time to waste exchanging pleasantries.

"Who was the young man that just came through here?" he asked, "The one with the Purple cloak and green eyes,"

"Oh, him! He _was_ a little odd, wasn't he? I couldn't quite put my finger on it..." Eric trailed off, a crease between his eyebrows.

"Yes, quite odd." agreed Albus. "But who was he? Surely he must have registered his wand here,"

"Right. Yes. He did." Eric seemed to remember the original question. He shuffled through several white slips of paper on the desk before picking up the correct one. He handed it to Albus.

_Hadrian Peverell_

_Wood- Cherry_

_Length- Fourteen Inches_

_Core- Blood of a Vampire_

_Destination- Department of Magical Transportation_

Albus looked at the paper. Peverell? It couldn't possibly be; the Peverells had died out centuries ago. Albus would know, as he'd spent the majority of his youthful years searching for the Deathly Hallows. But the scales that weighed the wands didn't lie. That boy was truly Hadrian Peverell. But it was impossible, wasn't it? Albus looked again at the slip of paper.

_Core- Blood of a Vampire_

It couldn't possibly be...Most people wouldn't notice. Obviously, Eric Munch hadn't. But a wand with a core of vampire blood rarely belonged to anyone human. Was it possible that Hadrian Peverell was a vampire? That would certainly explain his Darkness, as well as his, well, _Peverellness._

Albus couldn't be sure, though. There _was_ the occasional witch or wizard whose wand had a core of Vampire blood. But Albus's instincts told him that that was not the case, and far be it from him to ignore his instincts. They'd gotten him out of more than one sticky situation in his many years. And right now, his instincts were telling him to be afraid. To be very afraid.

Whoever Hadrian Peverell was; _whatever_ Hadrian Peverell was, he was Dark. That meant that he was a threat, one that would side with Grindelwald in the war, if he hadn't already. Because Dark creatures were all the same; Dark _wizards_ were all the same. They sided with whichever Dark Lord promised them rights. It was an excuse to murder and torture humans, and those that practiced Dark magic were bloodthirsty and evil.

Albus handed the slip of paper back to Eric, mumbling a distracted goodbye.

As he flooed from the Ministry, stepping from the fireplace and into his office, Albus felt extraordinarily old.

"Hadrian Peverell." he spoke aloud to the empty room. The name tasted foreign on his tongue. He hadn't heard it before. _Who exactly_ is _this new threat?_ He wondered. Albus remembered the boy's chilling eyes, eyes whose gaze had seemed to pierce into his very soul.

He wasn't sure he wanted to find out.


	11. The Hallow and the Horcrux

**A/N:** The poem in the beginning of this chapter is inspired by Lord Alfred Tennyson's 'Break, break, break', and the line marked with the * is taken directly from that poem.

* * *

 

  **The Hallow and the Horcrux**

.

~.~

.

_Fall, fall, fall,_

_Sorry tears which adorn my bleary eyes,_

_And see the insidious shadows suspended_

_As dark as this web that I've woven of lies._

_._

_See that I am all but broken_

_I would that I'd fallen for naught,_

_See that my soul's torn asunder_

_My own self is with wretchedness fraught._

_._

_And the woes of the heart to the youth_

_Are ephemeral, mended at will_

_But old is my soul as my body is young, and I long_

_For the sound of a voice that is still*_

_._

_Fall, fall, fall,_

_Faulty hopes, broken dreams long since gone_

_But the equanimity of a mind that was mine_

_Has been lost to a day that I fear will not dawn._

.

~.~

.

The mansion was white, though in the late evening light, it glowed golden. Tom looked up at the building with an emotion somewhere between awe and ire. This was where his father lived. This was where he could have been raised, had the man bothered to check on his bastard son. This was where the filthy muggle would die. Tom owed the man nothing. He had been so sure that both of his parents were dead. Why, when he was little, Tom had wondered if perhaps they had been forced to give him up under tragic circumstances.

That theory had been refuted when he asked Mrs. Cole whether she knew anything of his parents. She had. When Tom learned that his mother died shortly after giving birth to him, he had been quite disappointed. But the hope lingered in his mind that perhaps his father was out there somewhere, searching high and low for his beloved son. His father, for whom he was named, would have been a handsome man, whose looks matched his son's. He would have been a nobleman; a good man.

Such was not the case. Oh, his father and he definitely shared a certain resemblance, judging by his uncle's memories, but Tom Riddle Snr. was certainly not noble on any account. To abandon a helpless pregnant woman...

Tom walked toward the front door, and lifted the heavy brass knocker. Once, twice, thrice, he knocked. He could hear the hollow sound echoing throughout the expansive house. After a moment, hurried footsteps could be heard approaching the door from the inside. A man dressed in a muggle suit opened it. He was a short, stout man whose watery brown eyes turned suspicious as he took in Tom's robes and cloak.

"I am here to see Tom Riddle," Tom stated, and sent a minor compulsion charm at the butler to keep him from asking questions. Immediately, a glazed look came over the man, and he seemed to look through the half-blood, not quite seeing him.

"Right away, sir. Please wait in here." the man in the suit showed Tom to a small sitting room, and gestured to a couch. The heir of Slytherin remained standing as the butler excused himself and left in search of Tom Riddle Snr.

Tom smoothed the wrinkles from his heavy robes in a nervous gesture. Finally, after seventeen years of second-hand clothing, the half-blood was well dressed. His salary, while not inordinately high, was enough to afford him spartan accommodations near his work, and new clothing. Loath as he was to admit it, Tom was currently wearing some of his best robes. He wouldn't stoop to sporting muggle attire, regardless of the fact that he was currently in Little Hangleton, _visiting_ muggle relatives, but he would be damned if his father thought him some urchin.

Tom fidgeted nervously with the clasp of his cloak. There was no point in removing it, as he wouldn't be staying long, but the cloak was one of wool, and his body heat was trapped inside. He cast a cooling charm on himself.

When the door creaked open again, Tom looked up to meet a face like his own. The high cheekbones were made less prominent with age and large meals, but it could be none other than his father looking at him with wide, dark blue eyes. Eyes the colour Tom's had been before he'd immersed himself in the Dark arts.

The man's mouth sagged in surprise, and he blinked stupidly. Tom was filled with disgust, and any doubts he'd had about his plan were mitigated.

"Out," the man spat when he had recovered his composure. "Get out now."

Tom levelled the man with a glare. "I am your son."

The man narrowed his eyes. "I know bloody well who you are, and you are no son of mine. You are a freak like your mother, aren't you?" the man eyed his robes somewhat fearfully. A spark of rage ignited in Tom.

"My mother is dead, you fool. She was no freak, nor am I."

"Dead? That is unfortunate for you, I suppose. It's not your fault that your mother was some Devil-worshipper, though it _is_ your fault that _you_ are."

 _How dare he?_ This theory wasn't new to Tom. At the orphanage, some of the children had even suggested that he was possessed by the Devil. Mrs. Cole'd had the nerve to call a priest in, and attempt to perform an exorcism on Tom, who was eight at the time. "My mother was no such thing. She was a witch, just as I am a wizard, though she was rather pathetic. As was her taste in men."

The man sputtered, his aristocratic face becoming flushed. It was obvious that he was torn between anger and embarrassment.

"What do you want? Money? I'll write you a cheque, just so long as you swear to never return."

The flame of anger in Tom's chest swelled into a raging inferno of rage. _Money?_ This filthy muggle wanted to bribe him with _money?_ He drew his uncle's wand, the dark wood glinting evilly in the evening light. He levelled it at his father, relishing the spark of fear that was growing in eyes so like his own, yet so weak, so unworthy. This man, _this stupid, ignorant man,_ had abandoned him and cursed him to a life of suffering. Now he would be the final key in Tom's quest for immortality. The irony brought a sinister smile to Tom's lips.

" _Avada Kedavera,"_ he uttered the words quietly, yet passionately, and watched with eyes filled with a twisted sort of glee as the vibrant green light sped toward the second blood relative that he'd ever had the displeasure of meeting. The colour was bright; familiar, though this was the first time that Tom had cast the spell. _The colour of Hadrian's eyes,_ the thought came unbidden to his mind, but he pushed it away in favour of watching as his father slumped to the floor, his lifeless face frozen in an expression of horror. The sight filled Tom with vindictive pleasure, to see the man that had indirectly been the cause of his childhood suffering laying still and cold in his own sitting room.

Quickly, before the magic had a chance to fade, Tom withdrew the diary Horcrux from his robes. It was followed immediately by the Gaunt ring, whose small black stone glistered with some mysterious spark. He stared at the ring with no small amount of determination. It was time to attempt the impossible.

He conjured sand and candles, spreading the sand into a ring and placing the candles around it in a now familiar pattern. This time, though, he did not enter the confines of the circle. No, the circle was occupied only by the diary, the ring, and an athame, which Tom levitated, carving small runes into the face of his diary.

When the time came, he chanted archaic words, hoping beyond hope to see the piece of soul in his Horcrux split into two, and create another from the ring. Intense magic rose around him, saturating the air with its power, and Tom fell silent, waiting for his Horcrux to split. But as the magic continued to build, he knew that something wasn't right. _No,_ he thought as excruciating pain began to build within him, _Something is very,_ very _wrong._

As the pain escalated, Tom clutched at his chest, his wand falling from his fingers and clattering to the floor as he sank to his knees. A crack of apparition startled him into opening his eyes, which had fallen shut at some point, though he couldn't remember when.

Through the film of tears obscuring his vision, Tom was just able to make out a figure standing in the centre of the circle of sand. The pain intensified, and Tom's eyes closed of their own accord, despite his adamant mental protestation. But though he couldn't _see_ the person he knew stood in front of him, the wild, dark, tumultuous magic rolling around the room informed him that it could be none other than Hadrian Peverell. And judging by the frantic state in which his magic warped and buckled, the vampire was in agony.

.

~.~

.

The cart rattled on; deeper and deeper into the depths of Gringotts. The air was cold here, ancient and stagnant, and flowing in sluggish currents through the tunnels and over eerily phosphorescent underground lakes. Stalactites hung from the roof of the caverns, and Hadrian stooped in his seat to avoid being decapitated as the cart sped past vault after vault.

Hours seemed to pass as he maintained his position, crouched and scowling at Ragnok, the goblin currently operating the tiny, magical conveyance. It was an honour to be escorted by the Head Goblin himself, but Hadrian still couldn't help but wonder whether the ludicrously fast speed was strictly necessary. He'd left the Valavicius vault with a pouch full of Galleons, and was now doubting his previous acumen, as the gold clinked and threatened to slip from his grasp. His mother's will had left him everything, which was, honestly, quite a bit. He'd even inherited a small, Unplottable cottage in Brussels that he hadn't known existed until roughly an hour ago.

In addition to the property, Carina also left him a ridiculously large amount of money, the aggregate of which Hadrian was sure would take centuries to spend, even if he put his mind to it. The Valavicius vault also contained a few books, though not many, as most of Carina's beloved volumes were safely resting in the library-trunk, which never left Hadrian's pocket.

Nevertheless, Hadrian had briefly looked over each of them. By the third book he'd picked up, Hadrian had come to the conclusion that they were history books. Records of who was king when, and how he felt about his fourth wife, who bore him no children, and so on. Hadrian had recognised his mother's writing, though until the more recent ones, the writing was entirely in Latin. It appeared that his mother had been surprisingly well-informed for a woman of those times. Of course, when one was a vampire, being surprisingly well-informed was a necessity.

Other than that, the vault had held few surprises.

For the Peverell one, though, Hadrian had no idea whatsoever as to what he should expect. The Peverells had been fairly well off, as far as he knew, but other than that, the contents of vault 867 were a mystery to the young vampire.

The Valavicius vault was fairly deep in the bank, as it had been activated several centuries ago, when Carina moved from Rome to Britain, but it was nothing compared to the vault of the Peverells.

Hadrian glanced in the direction of the doors speeding by on his left, trying to decipher the numbers. They were moving too fast, though, and even his vampiric senses weren't enough to tell anything certain. He was fairly sure they started with the number seven, though, so Hadrian was happy to believe that they were drawing close to their destination. He was feeling more than a little queasy.

After a few more agonising minutes of twisting and turning through dark, dank, underground tunnels, the cart came to a screeching halt. Hadrian nearly flew from his seat.

"Vault eight-hundred and sixty-seven." Ragnok's scratchy voice rang out over the sound of Hadrian's breathing. The vault door was a tarnished silver colour, intricate locking mechanisms layered extensively over its surface. The flickering sconces on either side of the portal cast sinister and frightening shadows over the ornate bolts. Hadrian wondered how it would be opened; Carina's vault had needed a Goblin to run their finger down the centre of the door, but this one was much deeper, and the locks themselves looked far more imposing.

There was no keyhole.

Just as Hadrian opened his mouth to inquire as to the method by which the vault was to be opened, the Goblin placed both of his palms flat against the metal of the vault door. Hadrian closed his mouth and waited. With a quiet hissing noise, the latches began to recede, slithering away from Ragnok's spindly hands until there was a smooth, blank circle in the centre of the door. The Goblin removed his hands, and gestured for Hadrian to replace them with his own.

With more boldness than he felt, Hadrian pressed his palms firmly against the smooth surface. Immediately, he felt a sharp stinging sensation, but found himself incapable of removing his hands from the door, restrained by some magic. He tugged and even attempted a wandless shielding charm, but it was to no avail. He could feel his palms being cut open, and watched, narrow-eyed, as blood leaked from beneath the pale appendages, only to be absorbed into the door itself.

He felt the magic release him, and promptly wrenched his hands away from the offending silver door. He observed as the two identical slits on his palms slowly sealed themselves, his vampiric magic hurrying to heal him. When his hands were once again fully intact, though still bloody, he turned to glare at Ragnok.

"What _in Merlin's name_ was that?" he growled accusingly. The Goblin simply gave a dark smile in return.

"A necessary precaution."

"A _necessary precaution?_ You already tested my magic to make sure I was a Peverell." his face was a blank mask, though the anger in his voice was manifest.

"One can never be too certain." the Goblin turned to the door, which was now free of any locks, and pulled it open with a newly existent doorknob. "Besides, I presume that you will have no lasting injury." Ragnok looked at Hadrian's hands, and grinned knowingly. Hadrian sent him a baleful glance before turning his attention to the vault.

Unlike the Valavicius vault, whose walls were covered in tapestries and floors with expensive rugs, the Peverell vault was austere; the slate walls were bare and cold, as were the floors. The most prominent feature of the room was the mahogany bookcases, which lined the far wall. The vault was small, and so the bookcases held very few books in comparison to the library Hadrian carried in his pocket, but the vampire instinctually knew that the small number of books that were on the bookshelves would be invaluable.

Hadrian stepped inside, examining the other items in the vault. There weren't many. On a narrow, desk-like table to his immediate right sat three large bowls. The first was golden, and brimming with Galleons. In the air above it was suspended a large number which Hadrian suspected, and Ragnok confirmed, to be an inventory number. The second bowl was silver, and the third bronze, holding Sickles and Knuts respectively. Similar holographic numbers hovered over the Sickles and Knuts, indicating the number of coins in each. Judging by the numbers, Hadrian surmised that they must have expansion charm on them. All in all, Hadrian was now quite wealthy, though he intended to manage his finances somewhat frugally, for the sake of practicality.

"Ragnok," he called, turning to face the Goblin standing just outside the vault door. "You may leave. I am capable of exiting on my own when the time comes." He just hoped that fading would be possible.

"I daresay you are. Your family never was conventional. You _can_ apparate, though, just so you know." Ragnok turned to leave, "Goodbye, Mr. Peverell." he said.

"Farewell, Ragnok." he responded, "May your endeavours be ever lucrative." Ragnok looked at him in what Hadrian was _fairly_ sure was surprise at his use of the Goblin phrase, but he couldn't be sure, what with the fierce expression his face was perpetually twisted into.

"Your business at Gringotts is very much appreciated, Mr. Peverell." Ragnok bowed his head slightly in an uncharacteristic display of respect, and then seemed to hesitate before speaking again. "...If you ever need anything, don't hesitate to ask. We Goblins do not normally meddle in the affairs of wizards, were there a third side in this war, one that would fight for the rights of creatures like you and me, we Goblins would be more than willing to take up arms."

Hadrian hoped that his shock didn't leak through his carefully constructed mask of composure. What exactly was Ragnok saying? His words were cryptic, yes, but it seemed to Hadrian as though the Head Goblin was offering the support of his people to Hadrian should he take up his own side in the war. That was...unexpected, though not at all unwelcome. Actually, Hadrian had never given much thought to what he would so after he fought Grindelwald, should he survive.

He _did_ know quite a few witches, wizards, werewolves, vampires, and now Goblins that would be interested in fighting for the rights of Dark wizards and creatures alike. Perhaps...But he was getting ahead of himself. Right now, he just needed to train, to build up his power and duelling skills.

"Thank you, Ragnok. I will keep that in mind."

"Of course, Mr. Peverell. May your vaults overflow with gold." Hadrian nodded, and Ragnok closed the door behind him. Hadrian could hear the many locks clicking into place on the other side.

The young vampire turned once again to face the contents of his family vault. He had some exploring and investigating to do. On the opposite side of the room from the desk bearing the bowls of his fortune stood a marble pedestal, upon which was perched a yellowed, yet crisp, unopened envelope.

Hadrian strode over to stand in front of the plinth, and gingerly picked up the letter. In a tidy scrawl penned with green ink was his name. Hadrian. Just Hadrian. Curiosity reigned as he flipped the envelope over, observing what couldn't be anything other than his family crest on the seal. It was odd, and frighteningly familiar, not ornate as so many other ancient families' were.

A triangle, a circle, and a line overlapped to form a symbol that Hadrian immediately recognised as Grindelwald's sign. He nearly dropped the envelope in his surprise. Was it possible that perhaps it was not his family seal at all but rather a letter from the Dark Lord himself? Hadrian thought it unlikely, but proceeded to open the extensive letter with caution nonetheless.

_Dear Hadrian,_

_If you are reading this, both your mother and I are dead. We're well hidden, and using aliases, but the Dark Lord is clever, and there is a high possibility that he will find us. You are only a month old, as I am writing this letter, a letter which I'd hope I would never have to write. You are asleep, upstairs in the nursery, where I ca hear your mother singing to you. Her voice is beautiful, and if we are dead, I hope that you can somehow remember it, though I know it is nigh impossible. I hope that you will never read this, but if we are found and killed, and you somehow survive, then you need to know several things._

_First, we love you very much. No matter what happens, never forget that we love you. You are our son, and I only hope that wherever you might end up, you will be happy. That is what we really want, my son: your happiness. It is the reason that the Dark Lord is searching for us. We aren't willing to subject you to a life of servitude, and never will be. Sometimes, when your mother is asleep or out hunting, I will simply sit in your nursery by your crib and watch you. For someone as old as I am, the miracle of life is truly awe-inspiring. You are a quiet child, never crying. You have your mother's eyes, and already I can tell that you are intelligent beyond your years. You are powerful, you know; even though you are still an infant, I can feel it. You will be great._

_The second thing you know, as much as I hope that you will already know, and I hate to tell you through a mere letter, is that you are a vampire. I know that you will not have access to this vault until you are seventeen, and if you haven't been turned by the time you read this, you should find a vampire to turn you as soon as possible, or you could die from the onslaught of power you'll experience when you reach your Inheritance. The vampire only needs to bite you for you to turn, and you can_ Obliviate _them afterwards._

_After that, you will probably have a few years to grow accustomed to your newfound power, though Born children are usually turned before they reach puberty, to allow more time to adjust. Sometime between the ages of twenty and thirty-five, you will reach your Inheritance, which is when you'll inherit power from both your mother and me. The two of us are both fairly powerful, and so I suspect that your Inheritance will be anything but pleasant. I reached mine at twenty-seven, and your mother at twenty-five, so yours should be sometime around that age too._

_I am so, so sorry that I might not be with you to help you through it. I can't imagine suffering that alone, and I hope that you will not have to. The important thing to remember is that you shouldn't be around any humans whose lives you value. The bloodlust is strong, and as much as you try to resist it, I don't know anyone that has been fully capable of restraining it. If you have a human on hand whom you don't mind killing, one human's blood should be enough for you to remain sane. I can only tell you to fight the bloodlust, my son. It is strong, but you must be stronger. I daren't think what havoc you could wreak should you lose all control._

_Hopefully, if and when you are reading this, the Dark Lord has already been defeated, but somehow I don't think that is too likely. Either way, I hope that your mother and I have succeeded in preventing you from being forced to fight in a war before you are old enough to make a decision. Personally, I am not in favour of the Dark Lord's plans, and I hope to Merlin that you have adopted a similar perspective. He doesn't care for vampires, and our situation should he win this war would be no better than it is now. But your side in the war is for you to decide, not me, though it pains me to think of you fighting with that monster._

_Lastly, and perhaps most importantly, for this could affect both your life and the war tremendously, our family has a sort of legacy. Over the years, it has since become a fairytale, a children's story you can find in 'Tales of Beedle the Bard', of which there is a copy in the vault bookshelf._

_Anyway, the story is based off of three of our ancestors: Antioch, Cadmus, and Ignotus Peverell, and three powerful magical artefacts that came into their possession: the Deathly Hallows. Antioch created a powerful wand, the Elder Wand, which supposedly cannot be beaten. It is, as of now, in the possession of Grindelwald. Cadmus Peverell was a powerful Necromancer, and he was able to procure a piece of petrified Dementor's heart, which he set into a ring that is able to contact the dead, if only for a few moments. It has been called the 'Resurrection Stone', and is currently somewhere in the English countryside, though I haven't gone looking for it._

_The last Hallow is the Cloak of Invisibility, which has been passed down through our line from Ignotus, the youngest brother, and my grandfather. This cloak is unique in the fact that it will not fade over time, as others do. Cloaks woven from the hair of Demiguises will eventually lose their effectiveness, as the hair becomes opaque, and ordinary travelling cloaks enchanted with powerful Disillusionment charms do not outlast the lifespan of the original maker. Thus, the Cloak of Invisibility has been the subject of much speculation as to what makes it so effective, even amongst the members of our family._

_My grandfather claimed that it was given to him by Death himself; Death's own Cloak of Invisibility. As he was the supposed 'creator' of the cloak, it is somewhat difficult to argue with his claims. As such, that is the only explanation we have as to why the Cloak works as well as it does. I used to be rather skeptical of this, naturally, but after years and years of using the cloak, I have come to believe that no sorcerer, no matter how talented, could create an invisibility cloak of such power._

_You can find the Cloak in the top drawer of the desk with the bowls of money on it. I hope that it serves you well, as it has served generations of Peverells before you. That cloak has saved my life many a time, but I don't think even the cloak of Death himself can hide me from a determined Dark Lord Grindelwald. As for the other two Hallows, I believe you should know that there is a sort of legend surrounding the three: the Master of the Hallows will become immortal. Wizards have, of course, attempted to attain immortality by collecting all three, but it is impossible, as they are difficult to find, and the true master cannot be someone not descended from the three brothers. As such, you can become the master, if you wish, but I cannot guarantee immortality. That part may be merely myth, though for your sake I hope it is not. You should be able to find the other Hallows, though, by searching for them with your magic. Once you feel the magic of the Cloak, the other two should be easily located._

_Good luck in that quest, if you choose to pursue it. And by the way, our family crest is the symbol of the Deathly Hallows. Grindelwald has adopted it as his symbol because he at one point attempted to become the Master of Death, but don't worry; he isn't related to us._

_Above all, remain safe, for your mother's and my sake. If you are reading this, you are an orphan, and for that I am eternally sorry. No child of mine should have to grow up without a father, and I quake to think of leaving you behind. Ana is coming back downstairs now (you must be asleep) so I must end this letter; she doesn't know I'm writing it, and I don't want her to worry. She loves you, Hadrian, as do I. I wish you the best of luck in whatever path you take, my son._

_Love,_

_Your Father, Cassius Peverell_

Hadrian stared at the letter, his eyes unfocused. His father had written this, nearly seventeen years ago. It seemed such a long time, but as he read the words, Hadrian was struck by the fact that this was his _father_ ; his father was speaking to him across the boundaries of space and time, of life and death, and Hadrian could hardly comprehend that. This was a letter. A simple letter written by a man in the case of his untimely death, and yet it caused moisture to pool in Hadrian's green eyes as he read through it over and over again.

Eventually, when he had torn his eyes from the letter, Hadrian set about ripping the last sentence off. The small bit of paper bearing his father's love was carefully folded and stashed in the pocket of his trousers. The rest would stay in the vault; the letter contained sensitive information that could be dangerous in the wrong hands. He folded the letter and placed it back in its original envelope, leaving it where it had previously rested, atop the pedestal.

He wiped away the small bit of moisture that had leaked through his thick, black eyelashes. Now was neither the time to be sad nor sentimental, nor any other distracting emotion. Not when a possible advantage in his quest for revenge against the Dark Lord had been revealed. And _especially_ not when said Dark Lord had a supposedly unbeatable wand.

Hadrian walked over to the desk the letter had mentioned, and opened the top drawer. Inside, as promised, was the Cloak of Invisibility. The cloak was shimmering, silvery in colour, and when the vampire picked it up, it flowed over his fingers like water. He draped it around his shoulders, and was thoroughly disoriented to find that his body was, as it should be, invisible. He smirked in satisfaction. This would be exceedingly useful.

Hadrian closed his eyes, and reached out with his magic, feeling the cloak's signature. The magic felt old and powerful, yet magic didn't radiate from it, only tangible when he touched it. When Hadrian was sufficiently familiar with the magic, he took the cloak off, and stuffed it into his pocket. He reached out with his senses, pushing his magic through the walls of the vault, Gringotts, and even past Diagon Alley. He searched for magic that felt like the cloak, stretching his power until finally he felt it; a faint magic that was definitely within the borders of the country. Absently, he hoped that it wouldn't be the Elder Wand. He had no desire to appear directly within the vicinity of the Dark Lord he was so determinedly avoiding. In fact, that would be detrimental to his plan, not to mention his continued survival.

" _Point me,_ Gellert Grindelwald." he spoke, laying his wand flat on his palm. It spun in several circles before settling so that it pointed southeast, in the direction of Germany. _Good,_ thought Hadrian, _No unwelcome surprises, then._

With that last thought, he latched onto the signal, which was distinctly North, focusing on his destination. He gathered his magic to him, and apparated, the uncomfortable sensation of being forced through a small tube thoroughly unpleasant.

When he appeared in a small sitting room, he was at first relieved to be free of the constricting sensation of apparition, and to feel the presence of the Resurrection Stone quite close to him. The relief soon turned to confusion, as he noticed that _Tom Riddle_ was kneeling on the expensive rug, a dead man that looked suspiciously like the half-blood was laying on the floor, and Hadrian himself was standing in the centre of some ritual circle. The confusion morphed to fear and then panic as he felt some sort of pain begin to build in his chest, mounting until Hadrian's legs began to feel weak, and he stumbled toward an armchair, attempting to escape the ritual circle.

His efforts were unsuccessful. There seemed to be some sort of invisible barrier keeping Hadrian inside. He pounded against it with his fists, and then with his magic, but it was no use. The pain in his chest was becoming nearly unbearable, and added to it was a growing pressure in his head. He covered his ears, attempting to block out some of the increasing ringing that was becoming louder and louder in some sort of sick crescendo.

The pain was too much. Hadrian didn't know what was happening to him, and the pain in his head made it impossible to think straight, and _bloody hell, what is Riddle doing?_ The vampire leaned against the clear wall keeping him inside the circle, his legs too weak to support his entire weight. It was torture, whatever this was, worse than anything Hadrian had ever felt. Soon, it became intolerable, and Hadrian collapsed to the floor in a limp heap, his attempts to maintain consciousness failing.

.

~.~

.

Tom awoke in stages.

The first thing he became aware of was the fact that he was laying on a soft, flat surface that felt something like carpet. The second was that it was nighttime, as confirmed by the complete darkness revealed when he cracked open his eyes. To compensate for the lack of visual stimulation, the half-blood concentrated on hearing what he could. Wherever he was, it was quiet except for the sound of fitful breathing that Tom was fairly certain wasn't his own.

 _What happened?_ He wondered. He wracked his brain for some recollection that would serve to make sense of the odd situation, but his memories were jumbled at best. The heredity potion had worked...yes, and he'd found his uncle...and his father., the bastard...and...the Horcrux! Tom sat up quickly, memories flooding back into his mind and leaving him feeling more panicked than before. Something had gone wrong...the debilitating pain he'd felt...His muscles spasmed slightly in remembered suffering. The only thing he could possibly compare it to was the feeling he'd experienced when he created his first Horcrux...

Bloody hell.

Tom reached out with his magic, searching for pieces of his soul. One...Two...and much to his horror, the heir of Slytherin found a third piece, though he couldn't identify what its vessel was. He supposed it was irrelevant, anyway.

Three Horcruxes. The diary Horcrux had split into two, as he'd planned, forming the Gaunt ring Horcrux. But what of the third? Judging by the fact that he'd felt his soul splitting earlier, Tom surmised that he'd made an error in his calculations (as much as it pained him to admit it), and had accidentally created a third Horcrux. Which was bad. No, which was _dreadful_.

Because according to his research, Tom should be insane. He'd found a loophole to create one additional Horcrux, by way of splitting the piece of his soul not in himself but in the diary, but now he'd violated his soul in a way never even attempted before. He was operating on one third of a soul.

But he didn't _feel_ insane. His thoughts weren't scattered, he was aware of the situation, he wasn't having any homicidal urges...well, no more so than usual, at least. So perhaps the book had been wrong. Perhaps one _could_ create as many Horcruxes as they wanted and suffer no ill-effects. But that wasn't logical. It _made sense_ that one would go mad from having split their soul too many times.

Tom decided to put the thought aside, to be contemplated at a later time. Right now, he felt as though he was forgetting something important.

A loud coughing noise snapped him out of his thoughts, and Tom was immediately on guard. He patted the floor around him, searching for his or his uncle's wand. Either would do. When he found the smooth yew that signified his own, he was relieved.

 _Lumos,_ he thought, casting the spell nonverbally. He pointed his wand in the direction of the coughing noise. The cool light emanating from the tip revealed what appeared to be a pile of robes, but must have been a person. Tom approached the dark mass cautiously, slowly rising to his feat and wincing as his sore muscles protested the movement.

As he got closer, it became apparent that the heap was indeed alive, for it was rising and falling in erratic breaths. Tom crouched down beside the figure, and took ahold of what he guessed to be a shoulder, flipping it over. He nearly jumped in surprise before a blurry memory came to mind. Hadrian Peverell had appeared right before he passed out. How could Tom possibly have forgotten? He chalked it up to being in copious amounts of pain. But now that he _remembered_ , Tom could feel Peverell's magic in the room. It was peaceful, still, dormant and so different from its usual lively state. Tom stared at the vampire suspiciously, wondering why he was here.

His face was as pale as it usually was, when he wasn't wearing a glamour, but his skin had a pallid, ashen quality to it and dark circles tainted the skin under his closed eyes. But something was off; though the vampire was evidently unconscious, but the muscles in his left arm were flexed, his hand closed tightly around something. Tom reached down to pry his fingers open, ignoring the tingling sensation he felt at the skin contact. It wasn't easy, and the half-blood marvelled at Hadrian's strength as he finally succeeded in retrieving the object enclosed in the vampire's fist.

Surprise etched itself onto Tom's features as he looked at the familiar ring; now his Horcrux. Why had Peverell chosen this, of all things, to hold so closely even now in his insentient state. A wand, one that Tom presumed to belong to the Peverell heir, had been dropped on the floor just inches from his motionless body. Tom reached out to pick it up, but was distracted as his magic felt something unusual. His attention was drawn to the odd, lightening-bolt shaped cut that marred Hadrian's bloodied forehead. It was no ordinary cut; no, it was a curse scar.

Something about it mesmerised Tom, though he couldn't say for sure whether it was anything more than the usual compulsion to touch he usually felt when he was in the company of the Peverell heir. Tom reached out slowly, his fingers brushing the vampires forehead gently. He could feel slight waves of tingling pleasure sweeping up his arm from the point of contact, but it wasn't as strong as usual. Likely because Hadrian wasn't conscious.

The vampire made a soft noise somewhere in the back of his throat, and Tom very nearly wrenched his hand away, afraid that he was waking. He halted in his retreat when he realised that the vampire was simply leaning into his touch. The sight made Tom feel oddly giddy, but in the most pleasant way. He pushed back Hadrian's black hair, and smoothed the blood from his forehead, using wandless magic when it refused to disappear completely.

"Tom?" the vampire's smooth voice seemed to come out of nowhere, and it startled the Slytherin heir utterly. He withdrew his hand in a hurry, feeling guilty and somewhat cowed by the accusing green gaze Hadrian managed to level him with, even from his place flat on the floor. "What the _fuck_ did you do?"

Whereas on a different occasion, the complete lack of decorum on the vampire's part might have amused Tom, now it only served to unnerve him.

"I could ask you the same question." Tom replied diplomatically. Hadrian sat up, rubbing his head and grimacing, before realising that his hand was empty. He glanced around hurriedly, his gaze coming to settle on the ring that now sat innocently on the middle finger of Tom's right hand.

"I was on a search for some family heirlooms, and it lead me here." the vampire raised a single eyebrow, silently awaiting Tom's reply. Tom could see his eyes flick toward the Gaunt ring every few seconds.

"I was in the process of creating an additional Horcrux when you so rudely interrupted." the half-blood replied haughtily. "Though it _does_ appear to have gone somewhat awry." he admitted.

"I see." Hadrian climbed to his feet gracefully, though he did seem to sway slightly before righting himself. The vampire grimaced again, and Tom could tell it was involuntary. "Well _frankly_ , I don't want to know any details. This seems like a mess I don't want to be involved with." he looked pointedly in the direction of Tom's father's corpse.

"Hadrian—"

"Goodbye, Tom." the vampire gave a small wave, and one last glance toward the ring on Tom's hand, before he turned on the spot, fading into the shadows of the night. Tom narrowed his eyes, and fell onto one of the sitting room's couches. At least Peverell's departure gave him the opportunity to think about everything that had just happened.

Three Horcruxes. Damn.

Tom sank further into the cushions of the couch, silently cursing the complexity of his life. He reached out with his magic, intending to again study the three Horcruxes.

But he only found two. The diary and the Gaunt ring. _There were three Horcruxes mere minutes ago,_ he thought in anguish, _How is it that there are only two now?_

Tom froze as a possibility came to light. A single, _impossible_ possibility that excited Tom nearly as much as it terrified him.

"I'm so sorry, Hadrian." he spoke to the empty room, "But I seem to have made you my Horcrux."


	12. Repercussions

**Repercussions**

.

~.~

.

_"Men ought either to be indulged or utterly destroyed, for if you merely offend them they take vengeance, but if you injure them greatly they are unable to retaliate, so that the injury done to a man ought to be such that vengeance cannot be feared."_

-Niccolo Machiavelli

.

~.~

.

The Hadrian in the mirror seemed to mock him. The reflection looked as he always did: pale skin, jutting cheekbones, green eyes, black hair. But it was _wrong_ , because there on his forehead was a faint pink scar. The scar was unique, and not necessarily unattractive; on the contrary, the lightning-bolt merely added to his already enigmatic personality, for the rest of his skin was unblemished. But it wasn't the aesthetic aspect of his scar that bothered the young vampire.

No, the thought that had had him pacing back and forth for days now was the fact that it shouldn't be possible for him to _have_ a scar. Even when he was little, before he had been Turned, Hadrian had healed quickly. And when he grew up, and the pushing and shoving of schoolyard bullies was replaced by curses and hexes, not even the most serious of injuries had left a mark.

Because vampires _healed_. They healed and recovered and though sometimes extensive recovering could take days, nothing should have been able to leave a permanent mark on Hadrian except for the much dreaded stake through his heart. But there on his forehead was glaring proof that what he knew of vampires was false. Because it was a _scar_ , and despite the many healing charms he'd researched (never before had he _needed_ to treat himself), the lightening-bolt shaped cut refused to disappear completely.

He hadn't noticed it at first. No, in the first week after Hadrian had returned from his search for the Resurrection Stone, he had been too sick to worry about anything as negligible as his reflection, and too preoccupied wondering what Riddle had been doing with the _Resurrection Stone,_ of all things. He couldn't know of the Hallows, could he? Even if he did, Hadrian was sure that he would eventually be able to obtain them. And he had time. For he wasn't yet prepared to face the Dark Lord, and he needed to defeat Grindelwald in order to become the master of the Elder Wand. After that, perhaps, he could turn his thoughts toward the Resurrection Stone.

Besides, Hadrian was rather preoccupied at the moment. Even now, he was nauseous. He could feel bile rising in his throat, and hurried to kneel in front of the toilet. The bathroom was small but clean, with stone floors tiled in travertine, and a deep, claw footed bath. Hadrian squeezed his eyes shut as his stomach heaved, and winced at the feeling of the putrid blood that his body couldn't keep down.

It was better now; the evening he'd faded here, to the cottage Carina had left him in her will, he'd spent the night retching, and fading in and out of consciousness. He didn't know what was wrong, though it definitely had something to do with Tom Riddle. Hadrian wiped his mouth, silently banishing the traces of his vomit. He stood up slowly, careful to avoid upsetting his stomach again. He _did_ feel better now. Still weak, but not quite as on-edge. Hadrian sighed as he walked out into the small, single bedroom of the cottage. The bed linens were a pale green colour, and soft in contrast to the rough wood of the floors here. Through the single window, Hadrian could see trees, whose leaves were beginning to turn from green to golden to a deep crimson, swaying in the light morning breeze.

It was August twentieth, and Hadrian had been in the cottage for nearly three weeks, so he had born witness to the changing of the leaves. He _knew_ that it wasn't safe to remain here too long, but if he'd attempted to go anywhere too distant during the past weeks, Hadrian doubted he would have been able to fight anyone off anyway. And besides, the property was secure. Between his bouts of sickness, Hadrian had been able to erect some of the most powerful wards he'd ever attempted. He'd even gone as far as to cast a Fidelius Charm, appointing himself as the Secret-Keeper.

The cottage was rather austere for something that had once belonged to Carina; it was obvious that she had intended it for her son. Everything from the green of the bedding to the framed manuscripts that served as the walls' only decoration bespoke Carina's thoughts of Hadrian. There was even a piano. It was an upright, as befitted the size of the cottage, and the detailing of the wood lent an air of quality to the instrument.

He didn't touch it. There was something unspeakably sad about a piano that went unplayed. It sat there, silent, while Hadrian lapsed in and out of consciousness. It was almost as tragic as the pianist who refused to play.

Hadrian sat down on the bed, and allowed himself to sink deep into the pillows. He felt stronger now than he had yesterday, and yesterday, he'd felt stronger than the day before that. He'd only thrown up once in the last week, and could feel his magic working hard to cure whatever malady he was suffering from. Yesterday, he'd even ventured to Diagon Alley (disguised as Julian Pearce, of course) to purchase his materials for the upcoming school year.

As he stared up at the off-white, plastered ceiling, Hadrian contemplated what he intended to do today. He wasn't yet recovered enough to attempt any staggering feats of magic, but he believed that he had enough strength to deal with Renatus Nott. It would have to be done before he went to Hogwarts, at least, for once Nott was in the castle, Hadrian wouldn't dare murder him for fear of attracting unwanted attention.

Hadrian stood and dressed himself. He'd needed to have several pairs of robes made for him after Carina's death, as the few he'd retrieved from Citadel Vrykolakas were just that: few. The ones he donned today were plain and black, as was the cloak whose hood he drew up to shroud his face in darkness. He wanted to appear nondescript.

" _ **Samsa!"**_ he called, and was satisfied to hear the sound of scales sliding over wooden floors in response. The serpent had been angry with him for a couple of days, vexed by having been shrunken and stored in a pocket for easy transportation. Now she was friendly enough again, though she kept asking for mice to 'win back her favour'. Hadrian thought that he probably had the most high-maintenance familiar in existence. Granted, most people couldn't _talk_ to their pets... Not that he would ever dare refer to Samsa as a pet.

" _ **Yes?"**_ the feminine hiss drew Hadrian's eyes to the snake. She lifted her head, raising her head in a serpentine expression of arrogance. Hadrian shook his head, chuckling.

" _ **I must leave; I need to dispose of someone. Would you like to come?"**_ he didn't bother with any sort of subtlety, instead electing to take the most direct approach.

" _ **Whom is it that you will be killing?"**_ she hissed in question, though she slithered up his side, coming to rest around his shoulders, but still under his outer cloak. "Is it the Smelly One?" Hadrian's eyes twinkled at her nickname for Nott. Samsa claimed that the pureblood always left a taint on him, and refused to be in Hadrian's presence if he'd recently slept with Nott. Not that that issue was relevant, now.

" _ **Yes, it is the Smelly One."**_ The side of his mouth quirked up in a smirk.

" _ **I am glad to see you have finally taken my advice into account, then."**_

Hadrian remained silent, allowing Samsa to believe that her advice was the cause of Nott's impending death. He needn't bother explaining his true reasons to her anyway. He hummed slightly, and stroked the serpent's scaly head. Her weight on his shoulders was comforting, and he was glad she'd agreed to accompany him.

What he was about to do would likely weigh heavily on his conscience, and the fact that he was almost excited for it made him feel slightly sick. Torture wasn't something he enjoyed. He enjoyed having absolute control over someone, but for someone as powerful as Hadrian, torture felt like an abuse of that power. Hurting people that would be helpless against him in a duel made him feel somewhat guilty.

This wasn't mindless torture; this was revenge.

Hadrian steeled himself, pulling all of his emotions deep into his mind, and forgetting them. He breathed deeply, feeling his heart rate slow as his body relaxed. Nott wasn't some innocent victim; he was a lecherous, ignorant man who knew too much, and needed to be eliminated. And if Hadrian's plan succeeded, he would be saving the lives of hundreds of Dark witches, wizards, and creatures.

Surely one man's death was justified. Hadrian felt a familiar calm settle over him, chilling his heart and his mind so that he felt only numbness. The more sadistic side of his personality came out to play, and he began to look forward to the prospect of the mental and physical pain he was about to inflict.

Drawing his magic to him, Hadrian decided to apparate. The wards of Nott Manor would allow him entrance. The vampire turned on the spot and disapparated with a loud crack. His feet met solid wood floors, and as he became oriented properly, Hadrian was pleased to notice that he had indeed appeared in the proper location: a cell in the dungeons of Nott Manor. The walls were grimy and dripping with moisture that seeped in from the earth outside the stone. Bars obstructed any escape route, and it was nearly completely pitch black, the underground location not allowing for any light, and the air was stale and cold. No doubt the dungeons hadn't been used in centuries.

That was about to change. An ominous glint shone in Hadrian's virescent eyes.

Hadrian reached up to take hold of the pendant that still hung about his neck, felling the slight indentation of the tiny runes carved in swirling patterns over the surface. It was truly a tribute to the finesse of powerfully cast Dark magic. He wrapped his magic around it, and tugged. He could feel it connecting to its twin, one that, if Hadrian was correct, was in this very house.

The silence of the cell was broken by a loud thump as Renatus fell onto the cold stone floor, jolting awake. _He must have been sleeping,_ thought Hadrian. Indeed, the Nott heir was clad in silken white pyjamas, which were now spoiled with smudges of the dungeon's filth as Nott twisted around, his eyes darting back and forth in the darkness. He couldn't see Hadrian, for his inferior human eyes took in nothing but darkness. The vampire narrowed his eyes at the pureblood, for the first time feeling true anger for what he had attempted to do.

"Who's there?" Nott asked, his face a poorly constructed blank mask. Hadrian could detect the fear in his expression, etched into the slight wrinkles beneath his eyes and the tautness of his mouth. The brunette couldn't hide anything from Hadrian.

He stepped from the corner, and saw Nott whip around to face the source of the rustling sound his black robes made. Hadrian silently faded to stand behind the pureblood, and leaned forward, so that he could breath into Nott's ear.

"What, don't you recognise me?" he whispered, and Hadrian found that his words were sibilant, nearly Parseltongue.

"Hadrian?" Nott's voice was higher now, filled with real fear and confusion. "What are you doing here?"

Hadrian's answering chuckle was sinister, echoing off of the stone walls so that one couldn't be sure where exactly he was standing. "My dear Renatus, I thought that would be obvious."

Before the pureblood could so much as open his mouth to ask another question, Hadrian cast _Incarcerous_ , and ropes sprung out of the thin air, wrapping snuggly around the Nott heir and rendering him immobile, even as the vampire vanished his pyjamas, leaving the pureblood standing nude.

"What—"

Whatever words Nott had been planning to say died on his tongue as Hadrian cast another spell, this one holding him in place so that he wouldn't be able to fall should his legs give out. Hadrian watched as the pureblood's eyes tracked him, becoming accustomed to the darkness.

That wouldn't do at all.

Hadrian conjured a black piece of cloth, and tied it tightly around Nott's eyes, despite the brunette's struggles. A smile played at the sides of Hadrian's mouth as he relished the absolute power he held over his victim. Any remorse was ensconced within impenetrable mental shields, though somewhere in the depths of his mind, Hadrian winced at the ugly expression of fear on his former-lover's usually attractive face.

When someone can't see, they have to rely on the other senses. The blindfold ensured that Nott was completely blind, and so now when Hadrian hit him, each blow would come as a horrible surprise, and the moments in between would be no better; they would be spent suffering in harrowing anticipation. Some victims would break from torture like this, slowly spiralling into insanity from the combination of psychological and corporeal suffering; Hadrian had more faith in Nott though. He knew the pureblood well, enough to know that he would be more or less sane until his last moments. And that was exactly what Hadrian wanted.

"Look, Hadrian," Nott tried to salvage the situation. "I'm sorry for what I did at the Gathering, okay? I was drunk, I wasn't thinking straight—"

Hadrian's first kick landed with a sickening crack on Nott's left leg, just below the knee. The pureblood shouted something quite profane, and tried to curl in on himself. The spells restraining him forced him to remain somewhat still, though his body shook in tremors. After that, the Nott heir fell quiet save for the occasional stifled moan, probably realising that nothing he could say would help him. Hadrian gave him a minute to adjust to the pain before he attacked again, placing light blows all over Nott's tanned skin. He avoided any vital organs, and the majority of the torso area, electing to focus instead on the extremities: hands and feet, fingers and toes, could be broken and twisted without endangering the victim's life, but while delivering staggering amounts of pain.

Each hit jolted Nott's broken leg, so that he screamed out in agony. The sound made Hadrian's gut curl in delight, even as pity threatened to burst through his mental shields. He waited a few seconds between each strike; enough time for the pain to fade slightly and for Nott to begin to wonder where the next hit would land. The anxiety, the _waiting_ , was more torturous than any wound could ever hope to be.

" _Please_ , stop..." Nott's words were hardly intelligible, and Hadrian had to lean in to hear him. The words were delirious, spoken as a last hope to end the suffering, and though Hadrian knew this, he couldn't resist.

"Would you have stopped if I asked you to?"

Nott whimpered miserably, and his answer was painfully obvious as fat tears slid down his bloodied cheeks. Hadrian kicked the pureblood once more, on his injured leg. He was rewarded by a choked scream before Nott slouched in his restraints, unconscious. Disappointment was prominent among Hadrian's unsuppressed emotions before he remembered that he was indeed a wizard, and that this was no obstacle that a little magic couldn't overcome.

" _Aguamenti_ ," Cold water shot from Hadrian's wand, and Nott came to with a tragic wail that soon subsided into involuntary groans. The vampire tightened his control on his mental shields, refusing to let the pitiful whimpering affect him. _Nott deserves this,_ he told himself. _He deserves this and worse._

Nonetheless, Hadrian decided that he was through with the muggle methods; while he generally preferred them (they did require a certain élan which Hadrian had perfected so that it was practically an _art),_ they were harsher on his mind. The mental shields could only hold back so much emotion, and though the sight of Nott thrashing about in pain made perverted delight swirl in Hadrian's chest, it also made him slightly queasy. Magical means would speed things up.

He spoke the words slowly, so that Nott would have time to identify the spell as it shot forward, and dread it. As his spell made contact, the skin at the tips of the pureblood's fingers and toes began to split, peeling back as Nott screamed. The spell travelled upwards, tearing the thin layer of tissue from its rightful place. Nott's agony reached new heights and shrieks ceased, his mouth open in a silent scream of terror.

As the curse progressed, and the man who had once looked at Hadrian with awe and adoration in his eyes was reduced to a squirming, bloodied carcass, Hadrian could take no more. If he continued with this torture, his sanity would be lost along with Nott's as the emotions he was so dutifully suppressing burst forth. And frankly, Hadrian needed his sanity more than most; he was more important than most people, for that matter. He had revenge to exact, and insanity would most definitely be a hindrance in his plans were he to develop it.

Hadrian lifted his spell.

"Please..." Nott sobbed through the blood that was now dribbling down his chin, "Please...don't hurt me anymore..." the words were raspy and only his advanced hearing allowed Hadrian to decipher them.

"I'll...I'll do anything...Please, don't hurt me again..."

Hadrian turned away, disgusted. He was as repulsed by the pleading of a once-strong man as he was by the satisfaction he felt at the feeble calls of the would-be rapist. He couldn't bear to continue.

" _Finite_ ," he whispered, and the ropes fell away. Nott's body collapsed to the cold stone with a nauseating thud. The pureblood coughed, and blood splattered the flooring. Hadrian knelt so that he could clearly see what was left of the brunette's face, and willed his emotions to stay back behind his mental shields.

"Goodbye, Renatus." he said softly. The pureblood's once-beautiful eyes were now dull with resignation. _"Avada Kedavera."_

.

~.~

.

Light rain fell from the heavens, but the full, golden moon was visible through the thin layer of clouds, heralding the coming of Autumn. In the pale light, Tom Riddle disembarked from the carriage he had been riding in, conversing with some associates from Ravenclaw. As he exited the confines of the carriage, he was once again fascinated by the creatures pulling it. They had come as quite a shock to him when he had detrained from the Hogwarts Express earlier that evening.

Thestrals.

The ghostly creatures looked at him with sunken eyes, their dark, leathery skin stretched taut over their bony horselike bodies. Their hollow gaze was too knowing for Tom's liking, as if they could read his thoughts as he observed them. _We know what you've done,_ they seemed to say, and Tom was reminded of the reason he could see the creatures now at all. While he had indirectly killed the Ravenclaw girl during the previous year, he hadn't actually _seen_ her in the moment she had died, and thus couldn't see the Thestrals at the end of his sixth year. But he could see them now.

The thought brought a sinister smile to his lips. The summer had been productive for Tom. _I even found the time to pay a visit to some relatives,_ he mused darkly. He had made his direct first kill that summer, although the moments after the murder had hardly gone according to plan. He was happy to be back at Hogwarts, though. With the muggle war thundering about the world, most of England was unpleasant, though Knockturn Alley was more or less unchanged from what Tom imagined it would have been like in peaceful times for muggles.

Deep blue eyes looked up at the moonlit facade of Hogwarts castle, and Tom reflected that the fortress was even more grand than usual after a long summer away. As the rain drizzled lightly onto his pale face, he allowed a rare smile to grace his lips. It was good to be home.

He climbed the steps to the castle in silence, and walked through the entrance Hall and into the Great Hall in relative solitude before making his way over to the far side of the hall to sit at the Slytherin table. He was one of the last students to enter the Hall, and so the table was mostly occupied; Tom's place was left open out of a combination of habit, respect and fear.

When Tom took his seat, he was greeted with cheery 'hello's and cordial nods. Orion Black sat across from him, and Abraxas Malfoy sat to his right. Younger Knights of Walpurgis sat near him, spreading from the centre of the table outwards.

Tom noticed that a certain Renatus Nott was absent, and curiosity built inside of him even as a spike of anger reminded Tom of exactly why he suspected the Nott heir wasn't in attendance. The thought of the scene at the Gathering still made the Slytherin heir's eyes spark with rage, but thinking of Hadrian Peverell usually involved other thoughts, nowadays. Most notably, the fact that the vampire was his Horcrux.

The thought excited Tom, but it also made him nervous. While he knew that Hadrian must be more than capable of defending himself, he still worried. After all, the Peverell scion had one of the most dangerous Dark wizards ever to live after him, and even the most competent of duellers had fallen at the wand of the Dark Lord. Tom was confident that he himself could stand his own against the wizard, but it was Hadrian he was concerned about, for it was Hadrian who was carrying Tom's Horcrux, albeit unknowingly. And despite the rumours Tom had heard spouted of Peverell's formidable duelling prowess, from what Tom had seen of Hadrian, he hardly seemed too vicious.

No, he thought that if it came down to battle, the vampire would be more likely to stun than kill. And considering the fact that unwittingly harbouring a piece of Tom's very soul, that was unacceptable. The heir of Slytherin decided that he would have to find a way of protecting his Horcrux, though he knew not how.

Erecting his most perfect mask of polite interest, Tom turned his attention to the conversation taking place at the table. Abraxas was leaning forward across the table, whispering to Orion.

"—heard that it was an accident. I think it might be true, too. My mother is fairly close with Lady Nott, and that's what the Notts told her, when we were at the funeral." Tom's interest was piqued. _Could it be that they are speaking of Renatus?_ He wondered.

"Don't be ridiculous, Abraxas," Orion sneered. "Those sorts of things don't just happen accidentally. His body was destroyed, for Merlin's sake. They couldn't even restore him with magic, and you know that the Notts are hardly a Light family. If anyone could repair damage caused by Dark magic, it would be them. But the ceremony was _closed casket,_ Abraxas. The coffin was _sealed_. _I_ think that it was an attack."

Tom leaned forward, and joined into the conversation. "But who would attack the Nott family?" he asked, though he was fairly sure he already knew the answer. His year-mates accepted his interjection easily, and Orion was quick to reply.

"It could have been anyone, really. Maybe it was one of those Light extremist groups, and they wanted to put an end to a Dark family."

Abraxas snorted. "Well if that was their goal, they certainly succeeded. Without Renatus, the Nott line will die out." despite his flippant words, Tom could tell that the Malfoy heir was affected by his friend's death. The morbid humour only served to make his disquietude more apparent.

"Are you talking about Renatus Nott?" a voice asked from several sets to Tom's left. He turned to see Alphard Black, looking in his direction curiously. Alphard was a fifth year, not one of the half-blood's Knights, but definitely Dark. The boy was somehow related to Orion Black; cousins, Tom suspected. The two definitely shared a certain family resemblance, with their smooth dark hair and half-crazed eyes. As much as Tom supported purebloods, he had to admit, if only to himself, that too much inbreeding couldn't be all that good for the bloodlines.

"We are indeed, why do you ask?" Tom replied to the fifth-year's question.

"Well," Alphard looked somewhat nervous, now that he was addressing the unspoken leader of Slytherin House. "It's just that I heard a rumour, is all, about the circumstances surrounding his death." The boy glanced at the seventh years, and Tom waved his hand in a circle, gesturing for the pureblood to continue.

"Well, I have this friend, Bayard Carax, and I was talking to him at Renatus's funeral, and he said something about Renatus making powerful enemies." The heir of Slytherin rose an eyebrow, and committed the name of Alphard's informant to memory. He knew that Carax was the name of an old, Dark, French family...

"Anyway, he said that his friend, had been really mad at Renatus, and that he thought that maybe he was somehow involved in the death."

"Do you remember the 'friend's' name?" Tom asked, wanting some sort of confirmation to his suspicions.

"Oh, yeah...Harrison something, I think."

"Hadrian Peverell?" Tom inquired.

"That's it! Hadrian, not Harrison. Hadrian Peverell. Yeah, I think that he used to be friends with Renatus or something, but then something happened...I'm not sure what, I wasn't really paying that much attention."

Orion and Abraxas continued to debate about the subject, but Tom's attention was already turned away from the conversation, as his theory had been corroborated. So. Perhaps Hadrian Peverell was hiding more than his vampirism. Tom vowed to find out exactly what.

.

~.~

.

Blood soaked the fine material of Hadrian's dark grey trousers, seeping from the wound above his knee and saturating the cloth thoroughly as he danced back and forth, firing spells in quick succession at the dummies. The fabric around the wound was singed, as was the skin underneath, not yet healed. It had been Fiendfyre, and Hadrian was fortunate to have escaped with little more injury done to him than a few burns; others hadn't been so lucky. In fact, Germany had lost nearly two thirds of the aurors that had participated in the battle today.

The battle that they had lost.

Hadrian growled and fired a powerful blasting curse at his target. The dummy exploded in a burst of black ink, the Room of Requirement's version of blood.

Hadrian was furious. Furious with the aurors, who could have been more organised in their counter-attack; with Grindelwald, for his skilful takeover of the German Ministry; and most of all, the vampire was furious with himself. For not fighting harder. For the innocent blood spilt, blood that could perhaps have been prevented, had Hadrian been more dedicated to his training.

A cutting curse struck a mannequin in the neck, relieving it of its head.

In his heart of hearts, Hadrian knew that he had tried his best, that he had devoted every spare minute of his time to becoming a better fighter. But the thought didn't do anything to alleviate Hadrian's guilt or anger; on the contrary, it only served to fortify his ire. Because despite his best efforts, Germany was now lost, lost to the control of the Dark Lord.

Hadrian spun around, setting a dummy ablaze with a well-aimed ' _Incendio_ '. He refused to wince at the pain in his leg, or at the pain from the matching burn on his shoulder. Curse after curse was shot in the direction of Hadrian's targets, and though it did little to help his injuries, Hadrian began to feel his anger wane, coming to be replaced by the miserable feeling of utter defeat.

Now that Germany was his, Grindelwald would likely turn his focus to England, which didn't bode well for Hadrian. Because although he was stronger, better than he had been a month ago, the Peverell heir wasn't ready to face his parents' murderer. No matter how irate he was, Hadrian wasn't vacuous enough to think even for a second that he would be able to win a duel with the Dark Lord.

He flung another angry curse in the direction of the dummies, and thought of what was needed in this situation. He needed to train more, to make more time to practice his spellwork and his duelling. In the month since school had started, Hadrian had been sneaking from the Slytherin dormitories several times a week in order to make use of the Room of Requirement, and improve himself. But it wasn't enough. In the coming months, England would face the brunt of Grindelwald's attacks, and when the time came for Hadrian to face the Dark Lord, he needed to be ready.

Every night, he would train. _All_ night, if he had to. Hadrian's thoughts turned to the library-trunk hidden, shrunken, in his dormitory. Perhaps he could even find some useful curses in the books it held.

Hadrian halted in his assault upon the mannequins. They were annihilated, and the floor was a sea of black ink. A spattering of the ink had found its way onto Hadrian's robes, where it mixed with the blood already there. Altogether, Hadrian was a sight for sore eyes. He cast several cleaning charms on himself as the Room disposed of the obliterated dummies, and proceeded to transfigure his auror robes into Hogwarts ones. Pressing a hand to the back of his neck, Hadrian became Julian, shrinking in both height and mass. He slipped his father's Invisibility Cloak over his head and shoulders before asking the room to provide a door to the hallway outside. When it did, Hadrian peeked out into the castle cautiously. When he was satisfied that the hallway was indeed empty, he quietly crept from the Room, invisible.

As he stealthily made his way back to the Dungeons, Hadrian swore to himself that he would turn all his attention to training. _He would be ready to face the Dark Lord_.

After all, he had to be.

… **...**

Professor Flitwick's classroom was smaller than the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, and understandably so. Because while in Defence, lessons often involved larger scale, practical activities, Charms was primarily theory. Professor Flitwick adhered to a very set schedule, in which a practical test was given at the end of each week, and several projects were assigned per semester.

Currently, Hadrian was sitting at a solitary desk to the side of the classroom, two rows from the back. The seat was not random, as it would appear, but rather a calculated choice. It was not so close to the front of the room that Flitwick would take notice of him as he did the more enthusiastic students, but not so far in the back that the Professor would pay extra attention, as he did to the derelict students who usually occupied the back most seats.

Hadrian was currently passing the class, but only just. His grades were neither high enough to give reason for praise, nor low enough to incite concern. Actually, Hadrian had never even been spoken to by Flitwick individually. Or any of the other teachers, for that matter. 'Julian' went almost entirely unnoticed.

Hadrian stared distractedly out of the large windows overlooking the grounds, tuning out whatever the Charms Professor was blathering on about now. His green gaze was drawn in the direction of the Forbidden Forest, and past it, Hogsmeade. He needed to go hunting soon, he knew. Lately, his Blood Substituting Potion just wasn't sufficient, and with virtually no sleep, the vampire needed blood to sustain him and to keep his body functional. He'd hunted two days ago, and taken three doses of the potion since then, but already he was feeling strained and anxious. Perhaps he would forego his training tonight in favour of going on a hunt. Merlin knew that he was progressing quickly enough in his magic, and could afford to skip a night.

"—Julian Pearce and Tom Riddle," Hadrian's focus snapped back to Professor Flitwick at the sound of his persona's name, and he looked around the classroom confusedly. What was going on?

But as Flitwick continued to list names, Hadrian's heart sank. Because he was reading names off of a list. Names that were, presumably, project partners.

Hadrian wanted to slam his head down on the desktop. He couldn't believe that he had been so incredibly stupid. For years, _years_ , he had avoided being paired with Riddle. And now, the one time that he'd let his attention slip and forgotten to cast any sort of compulsion charm, the Professor had paired them together. The vampire wanted to scream, or pull out his hair, or throw himself out of the window, because he was just so. Damn. Stupid.

Especially now, with the unwarranted, uncomfortable attraction he felt toward the half-blood, Hadrian wanted to avoid him. He glanced up at Flitwick, who appeared to be elaborating about the project.

"You will have until the end of the year to complete this project. Working as a team, you are to create an original magical invention. What you make is up to you and your partner, but it needs to incorporate the advanced Containing and Warding Charms we've been studying. It will be due on the day of your Charms NEWT, and because you have the greater part of the entire school year to work on this assignment, I expect your final products to be nothing short of spectacular."

Hadrian bit back a groan. A year. A fucking _year_.

He chanced a glance in the direction of half-blood. To his dismay, Riddle was eyeing him with a quizzical look. The vampire quickly schooled his expression into one he hoped resembled ill disguised excitement, at having been paired with someone who was consistently at the top of the class. Riddle's eyes narrowed, and Hadrian noticed that they were far less blue than they had been at the time of the incident during the summer. Now they were not the indigo of stormy seas, but rather the deepest of violets, verging on red. No doubt from all the dark magic. Regardless of the cause, Hadrian thought they suited the Slytherin.

 _Well,_ thought Hadrian, _if nothing else, this project will give me an excuse to watch him more closely._ Perhaps he would even be able to unravel the mystery of the Resurrection Stone, and Riddle's connection to it.

Only time would tell.

.

~.~

.

Tom stared at the boy bemusedly. Only now, as Tom reconciled himself with the fact that he would be stuck working with the imbecile for the duration of the school year, did he realise that Pearce was the only student in the class that he had never worked with. Over the years, Tom had been paired with several dullards, and it was never a pleasant experience. The heir of Slytherin usually ended up doing most of the work, for he refused to let someone else bring down his grade. No doubt that would be the case in this situation.

He watched Pearce carefully, scrutinising his countenance. In the moments after his name was called, the boy looked almost _panicked_. But what reason would he have to be anxious about a simple project? Granted, many of the denizens of Hogwarts, especially those in the house of snakes, had a healthy dose of fear for Tom. Perhaps that was it, though the half-blood couldn't recall interacting with the outcast on any particular occasion that would cause the boy to fear him...For that matter, Tom couldn't recall interacting with Pearce _at all_.

Their eyes met from across the room, and Tom could see the pureblood fruitlessly attempting to conceal a look of excitement. He sighed at the tactlessness, so unbecoming for a Slytherin. Well, for anyone really, but especially for a Slytherin. The boy truly was an embarrassment to Slytherin's noble house. For a moment, Tom wondered if he had imagined the fleeting look of panic on the Pearce's face, but he didn't think it was so. Tom narrowed his eyes. He would have to keep a close watch on the boy.


	13. The Proposition

**The Proposition**

.

.

.

.

_"Take calculated risks. That is quite different from being rash."_

–George S. Pat

.

.

.

.

“We'll be making a power receptacle. It will act as a battery, so that theoretically, if you were to be in a situation where your magic supplies were depleted, you could use this to carry on. I shall do the spellwork, and then throughout the course of the year, we'll arrange times to meet and feed our magic into it...” Tom trailed off, and glared at his vacant looking project partner, who was sitting in a seat across the library table and staring off into space. He fought back the urge to hit the boy. Pearce was insufferable.

 The past week had been hellish for Tom, and he dreaded spending the rest of the year working on the damnable Charms assignment. So far, Pearce had done absolutely nothing to help Tom in his efforts toward the project. Tom thought up the idea, the schedule, and even exactly which spells would be needed for his creation. And that was what it would be: Tom's creation. For at this point, the likelihood of the imbecilic Pearce assisting in any way seemed quite low. It wasn't that Pearce was an awful student _per se_ ; he was merely not a decent one. He would do what Tom asked of him, but it wasn't done well, and thus Tom always ended up redoing it himself.

 It probably didn't matter anyway. Tom was actually looking forward to working on the device; he thought it was something of a stroke of genius that gave him the idea (not that strokes of genius were all that uncommon for the heir of Slytherin). The only requirement for the project was that it include some of the advanced Containing and Warding charms they had studied thus far in the year, and the power receptacle Tom had in mind fulfilled both requirements. He would use Containing charms to trap the magic in the receptacle, and Warding charms to keep it from being used by those whose magic wasn't pre approved by Tom. All in all, the Slytherin thought that it would be fairly simple.

 At least, it would be fairly simple if he didn't have to complete it complete it _entirely on his own._

 And the worst part was that it wasn't merely Pearce's lack of academic prowess which made Tom detest the boy. In fact, if Pearce was just the somewhat dull and irritating project partner the heir of Slytherin had been expecting, Tom wouldn't have too large of a problem. He'd worked with bothersome partners before, and remained civil. But there was just something _wrong_ about Pearce. He couldn't put his finger on _why_ , but whenever he was around the petit, ugly, _obtuse_ Slytherin, he couldn't help but feel a sort of draw.

 He was reluctant to call it attraction. No, he was more than reluctant. Tom _refused_ to call it attraction, for the pureblood had absolutely nothing to be attracted to. Additionally, Tom didn't find Pearce attractive in the least. The feeling was slight, barely noticeable, but infuriatingly present. He constantly found himself wanting to keep an eye on Pearce; to know where he was, what he was doing. It was irrational, and Tom loathed it. It made him loathe Pearce all the more.

 Tom's lips twisted into a scowl, signalling his displeasure. Pearce was staring absently in the direction of the library's windows, as he was wont to do, and his fingers were running distractedly over the spine of one of the books that lay open on the tabletop. Tom reached out tugged the book away from Pearce, and the pureblood's elusive attention seemed finally to snap back to where it should be: on Tom.

“I-I'm sorry,” the boy stuttered. “I was just...” Tom quelled him with a glare, and Pearce dipped his head to stare at the polished surface of the table. “I'm sorry,” he mumbled.

 “As you should be.” Tom continued to gaze at the boy stonily, making his annoyance known. He decided to spare himself the work of explaining the project to Pearce again, and instead settled for a simple “We will be meeting every other Tuesday, so that we can work on siphoning magic into our receptacle. Since today is Tuesday, we will meet in a fortnight exactly. Is that simple enough for you to understand?”

 Tom could see the boy's cheeks redden at his condescending tone, no doubt humiliated by the insult. It served him right, for being so infuriatingly dense.

 “Yes, I understand.” Pearce spoke quietly, as if afraid that by speaking too loud he would somehow incite Tom's anger. He probably would, too. Pearce did precious little that _didn't_ incite Tom's anger.

 In fact, Tom was feeling inordinately irritated, and decided that it would probably be best to head straight to the Chamber of Secrets, so that he could cool off a bit. He didn't want to accidentally snap at any of he fellow students, and so endanger his hard work befriending those from other Houses. No, it was best to give himself some time alone.

 With that thought, Tom prepared to leave. As Pearce clumsily got to his feet, made to close the Charms book which lay open on the table before him. Just as his long fingers wrapped around the edge, however, he felt the sharp sting of parchment slicing through the thin skin of his thumb. Damn, thought the Slytherin heir as he brought his hand closer to his face, examining the small wound. It was an insignificant injury, and Tom healed it quickly and wandlessly, with a hardly thought _'episkey'_. The cut left a faint white scar, visible from beneath the small droplet of blood that had seeped from the wound before Tom healed it, but that too would heal in a few days.

 It was then that Tom became aware that he was being watched.

 His eyes immediately snapped up to Pearce, whose diminutive form was standing rigidly, and staring at Tom's hand with a look somewhere between horror, confusion, and something that the Heir of Slytherin couldn't quite make sense of on his face.

 “Can I help you with something, Pearce?” Tom's voice was scathing, and the boy immediately averted his eyes, shuffling his feet in a nervous gesture. His were still tensed.

 “I'm sorry,” the boy's voice was very nearly trembling, and his words sounded forced. “I'm just- I only meant- It's just that blood makes me rather queasy, you see. That's why I was staring. I'm- sorry. I apologise.”

 Tom sneered. The boy was attempting to keep up his pureblood decorum, but he was rambling. And he was afraid of _blood_? Pathetic. The boy was a sad excuse for a Slytherin.

 “Whatever,” Tom said, his voice low with disdain as he made his way around the table. “Just don't forget our meeting in two weeks.”

 He stalked from the library. After speaking with Pearce (he couldn't possibly refer to the words they had exchanged as a _discussion_ ), Tom was in need of some intelligent conversation. The thought of Hadrian Peverell came to his mind unbidden; the vampire was certainly interesting to speak to. Alas, Tom hadn't spoken to him since the incident in his father's house. _Perhaps I will write him,_ thought Tom. After all, he did have something of a vested interest in the vampire's continued survival.

 And surely whatever Hadrian had to say would be far more interesting than the irritating blathering he suffered within the walls of Hogwarts.

  _Perhaps_ , he thought, _I will even arrange to meet him during the next Hogsmeade weekend._

 Yes, that sounded like a decent plan. The meeting would serve several purposes. He would be able to subtly ensure that his Horcrux was secure (though how it was even possible that he'd created a third Horcrux Tom still didn't know. Perhaps a meeting would shed more light on the subject) and provide Tom with competent conversation.

 Moreover, Tom had recently been wondering just how far Hadrian's influence went. Having the vampire as a political ally could be more than advantageous, assuming he wasn't killed during the war. The thought made Tom feel uncharacteristically disturbed, and suddenly he found himself rather eager to speak with Hadrian. Until then, however, he would have to keep him self sane by some other method. As he walked toward the second floor girls' lavatory, he hoped to Merlin that Despoena and Salazar would have something worthwhile to say. He couldn't take another moment in the company of dullards like Pearce.

_**.** _

_**.** _

_**.** _

_**.** _

Hadrian's footsteps echoed quietly against the cold stone floors. The chill of Autumn was in the air, and he pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders as he hurried up the stairs to the owlery. His usually pale fingers were bone-white as they clutched at the thick wool of his cloak, and despite the layers of sweaters which he wore, the vampire was cold. That wouldn't be nearly so abnormal were it not for the fact that Hadrian had fed just the day before. Vampires reacted to the elements just as humans did, and so a bit of coldness in the fall and winter weren't unheard of. They were, however, quite rare, and unprecedented for one who had recently fed.

 And Hadrian had done so _very_ recently. Just last night, in fact. And he had fed off of wizard blood too, not some substitution potion.

 Already he was hungry again. Already he was uncomfortable, and weak, and cold. But he couldn't leave Hogwarts every night. His disappearances would be noticed in the House of Snakes. And so he would force himself to endure another three days. Two, if he absolutely couldn't handle the hunger.

  _Merlin,_ thought Hadrian as he finally reached the landing at the top of the stairs, panting. _Something is horribly wrong with me._ Even in the weak form of Julian, he should have been able do walk up a dam set of stairs without breaking a sweat. It was like this when he exercised too. The duelling practice and training he put himself through daily in the Room of Requirement was far more strenuous than a mere flight of stairs, and his body felt the results. He was persistently sore, and his muscles protested further exercise. It was all for naught, though, as Hadrian had no intention whatsoever of letting his body come in the way of his training. It was literally a matter of life or death for him. Hadrian's lips pressed into a thin line.

 Sighing and doing a perfunctory sweep of the area with his magic, he pressed a hand to the back of his neck, and dropped his glamour. A contented sigh escaped his lips, which were tinged pink with the cold. Being in his true form was a small relief from the hunger he now experienced almost constantly, but even small it was better than the alternative. In the past weeks, he had been finding excuses to escape and exist in his true form as frequently as was possible.

 The owlery smelt fowl to his sensitive nose, but Hadrian welcomed the smell. It meant that he was alive, that he was breathing, that he was Hadrian Peverell, vampire, and he could smell the owl droppings quite clearly, thank you very much. He let out a self-depreciating chuckle as his eyes swept the room in search of Nyx. To think that he had lowered himself to being thankful for the smell of bird shit.

 “Nyx!” he called softly, when he didn't immediately find her.

 A quiet rustling drew his attention to one of the uppermost perches, where his owl was emerging from the opaque depths of the shadows. Nyx's feathers were slightly ruffled, a few sticking out of place.

 A pang of guilt wedged itself into Hadrian's heart at the sight of his faithful messenger. It wasn't that the neglect was intentional. No, if Hadrian had his choice he would be sure to care for her perfectly, but the circumstances were such that he could only receive his mail once a week, and thus see her only so often.

 “I'm so sorry, girl,” he murmured, lifting his hand to lower her from her perch. A single letter was clutched in her beak. He smoothed out her feathers carefully, tenderly, tucking them back in to place as the black owl nudged his fingertips affectionately. “I'll be out of here soon, I promise. Then you can deliver mail to me anytime.” Of course, 'soon' was still nearly a year away. He was determined to graduate from Hogwarts. 'Julian' needed to take his NEWTs and graduate along with the rest of the seventh years, because if worse came to worst, Hadrian needed to be able to escape, even if it meant living as Julian.

 Although sometimes, Hadrian wondered just how perfect his persona was. For all the years he had spent perfecting 'Julian', from his appearance to his speech patterns to his mannerisms and the way that he walked, sometimes Hadrian thought that Tom Riddle saw through him. It was an exceedingly unnerving feeling, being seen through by Tom Riddle, and one that the vampire was eager to avoid. Fortunately, Hadrian was certain that the heir of Slytherin hadn't figured him out yet, but sometimes Hadrian thought that perhaps it was merely a matter of time.

 Just days ago, in the library, Hadrian had nearly attacked Tom. Tom had cut his finger on a page of some book and the vampire had barely been able to control himself. Hadrian shuddered at the memory, and also at the cold seeping into his bones. He was just so bloody _hungry_.

 With a defeated sigh, he took the letter from Nyx careful not to knock his friend off-balance. It was written on off white parchment which Hadrian recognized to be of high quality, and across it was scrawled his name in a narrow, refined script which the vampire had come to associate with Tom Riddle. Frowning, Hadrian flipped the envelope over and broke the seal, sliding a short missive from within its depths.

  _Hadrian,_

_Meet me at the Three Broomsticks pub in Hogsmeade, on Saturday the sixteenth of October. I have a proposition._

_Tom Marvolo Riddle_

 The letter piqued Hadrian's interest, and for a moment he forgot the cold and hunger which assailed him. What could Tom possibly want from him? Obviously, he hadn't made the connection between Julian and him, but why else would the Slytherin heir be contacting him? Hadrian could only wonder.

 The 16th of October.

 It was two days away, on the Hogsmeade weekend, understandably. Hadrian wondered briefly whether he should simply decline the offer (well, it was hardly an _offer_ , but he was inclined to think of it as such, knowing Tom) and somewhere in the back of his mind he was aware that that would probably be the wise course of action, but alas, Hadrian did seem to sometimes have a rash streak worthy of a Gryffindor. And he was curious. What in Merlin's name could Tom's 'proposition' possibly be pertaining to? Surely something to do with the war, for Hadrian could think of precious little else.

 And even as he vainly told himself that it was a bad idea, that Tom Riddle was dangerous, and that he shouldn't become any more involved with the heir of Slytherin than he already was, Hadrian knew that he would go.

 Pulling his holly wand from within the folds of his cloak, Hadrian set the letter and envelope aflame. He wouldn't reply; it would be suspicious for a letter to return to Tom so quickly, and Saturday was the day after tomorrow. Hadrian patted his owl on the head gently, Nyx nipping his fingertips in reply, and promised to return as soon as possible. He trudged wearily back in the direction from whence he had come, raising once more his glamour, and slipping into the shadows.

 …..................................................................

 Saturday found Hadrian sitting casually inside the Three Broomsticks, sipping from a large flagon of mulled mead. The drink was warm and spicy, and Hadrian preferred it to butterbeer, and even wine. It soothed the bite of the autumn air, and the slight nerves which had been building steadily since Hadrian awoke this morning.

 He had arrived early intentionally. While Tom hadn't specified a time, Hadrian had made sure to be ready to depart the moment Tom left the walls of Hogwarts. That way it would be impossible for Tom to notice 'Julian's' absence, and Hadrian would have a few minutes to collect himself.

 He was dressed warmly (more warmly than he _should_ have had to dress in the second week of October) in a soft cashmere jumper of the deepest green, and charcoal coloured trousers tucked into his black leather boots. A fine, black, woollen cloak hung over the back of his chair, along with a warm brown scarf. With his verdurous eyes half-shut as he gazed off into the distance in thought, and his strong, lithe shoulders displayed as he leaned languorously back against his chair, Hadrian made a rather striking figure.

 Indeed, he drew several looks from passersby, both students of Hogwarts and residents of Hogsmeade curious as to who exactly the prepossessing young man in green was. Hogwarts students bustled in and out of the pub, but steered mostly clear of Hadrian's table in the back corner of the pub. The vampire did his best to discourage any attempts at conversation in the most polite of ways, as he didn't want to damage any relations with potential allies, but eventually ended up erecting a mild repelling ward. He was a rather private person, after all, and didn't enjoy the attention.

 He had been sitting in his place for upwards of half an hour when the door finally banged open, bringing with it a gust of cool air, a wave of familiar magic, and the faint scent of rain and musk that was uniquely Tom Marvolo Riddle. Immediately, Hadrian's eyes snapped to the tall Slytherin, and their gazes met for several tense seconds before Tom's lips turned up in a small smile. Hadrian returned the gesture, surprised; either Tom was an even better actor that he had thought previously, or the smile had been genuine. Hadrian didn't know which thought disturbed him more.

 “Tom,” he greeted, when the half-blood neared the table and slid into the seat across from Hadrian.

 A group of Hufflepuff girls sitting at a table nearby were staring blatantly at the pair, their interest obviously overpowering Hadrian's mild ward. He raised a condescending eyebrow at them, and the turned away, blushing, when Hadrian mouthed the wards for a silencing charm.

 “Hadrian,” Tom's voice was velvety, amused no doubt by Hadrian's antics, and the way his lips curled around the soft syllables of Hadrian's name were sensual, enticing. The vampire smirked.

 When a barmaid approached their table, Tom proceeded to order a shot of Ogden's Old Firewhiskey, deeply surprising Hadrian.

 At Hadrian's questioning look, Tom elaborated. “Firewhiskey has long been my favourite. The burning sensation in your throat takes some time to get used to, but I find its unique bitterness of flavour quite palatable.” Hadrian nearly choked on his mead at the suggestive glance Tom shot in his direction. “I never drink too much though; it wouldn't do to become inebriated.”

 Hadrian chuckled ruefully at the double entendre, but soon became serious. It was true, about getting drunk; these days, with Grindelwald's raids becoming more and more frequent, one had to be constantly alert.

 The barmaid returned with Tom's firewhiskey, and a refill of Hadrian's mulled mead. They thanked her quietly, and upon her departure, Tom erected a powerful notice-me-not ward, mighty enough to keep away the most intent of prying eyes. Hadrian relished the feel of the Tom's magic washing over him, alluring and strong and Dark.

 “Why the Three Broomsticks?” Hadrian inquired, “I was under the impression that you were more of a Hog's Head type.”

 Tom smiled. “Aberforth, Albus Dumbledore's younger brother, is the owner. I won't risk delicate conversations so close within the grasp of one of the Light's figureheads.” Hadrian nodded. He hadn't known, but he supposed that the older fellow who was always wandering about the shady pub did bear a striking resemblance to their Transfiguration teacher.

 Silence fell, then. It was a comfortable silence though, and somewhere in his mind Hadrian registered that it was quite nice to be able to be in close proximity to the heir of Slytherin in his true form. Liberating, really. While he was Julian, he couldn't afford to be caught ogling the Head Boy; it simply wouldn't do in a society where homosexuality was worse than murder in the eyes of the public. And although wizards were more tolerant, the fact that he was, well, _Julian_ , didn't help his case whatsoever.

 Now, he allowed his eyes to rove over Tom's figure unabashedly, taking some small amount of satisfaction from the fact that the half-blood was doing the same to him. He'd wondered for quite a while now if Tom was in fact gay, and though he had suspected that the wizard was attracted to him, it was nice to have it confirmed.

 He met the Slytherin heir's dark gaze evenly, not fearing any attack in the form of Legimency. Their eyes locked for several seconds before Tom's eyes flicked to Hadrian's forehead, where a glamour concealed his strange lightening-bolt shaped scar that so stubbornly refused to heal. Hadrian's eyes narrowed, and he decided to break the silence. He didn't want to be questioned about the scar, and though he himself was still confused about the incident, he didn't want the fault in his healing abilities exposed. Especially not to a prodigiously powerful Dark wizard.

 “So, I assume that you had some significant reason for requesting this meeting?” he began. Tom immediately turned his attention away from Hadrian's facial features and onto the topic at hand.

 “Your assumption is correct,” he paused, formulating his next words no doubt. From our previous conversations, I take it that you plan on fighting against Grindelwald,” it wasn't phrased as a question, but Hadrian took the hint.

 “Indeed I do, and yet I find myself confused as to why such a thing would be of import to you.” Hadrian lied, moving forward in his seat to rest his arms on the table, and cradling his chin in one hand as the other lay flat near his mead. It was obvious why Tom would find it important, and the half-blood knew that he knew it; Tom wanted to be the next Dark Lord.

 “I'm sure,” Tom drawled, a sardonic smirk playing across his attractive lips. “I suppose I'll just have to enlighten you, then.”

 Tom leaned forward slowly, deliberately, until he was so close that his mouth was mere inches from Hadrian's ear. When he spoke, it was in a conspiratorial whisper.

 “Grindelwald cannot win this war,” he murmured, and his warm breath ghosted over Hadrian's neck, forcing the vampire to suppress a shiver. “I don't mean that he is unable to beat the Light, but rather that we must not _allow_ him to win. It is not an option.” Tom was trying to seduce him, Hadrian realised. To seduce him into forming a new side in the War, and also perhaps romantically. How many times had Hadrian employed these same tactics to sway someone to his will?

 He fought the urge to chuckle at the Slytherin's methods. Surely Tom realised that Hadrian wouldn't be so easy to delude. He had to, didn't he? Nevertheless, the vampire remained quiet, wondering just how Tom would go about this.

 Tom moved even closer, laying a hand gently on Hadrian's upper arm. Tingles spread through him at the contact, and the vampire could see Tom shudder ever so slightly in pleasure. He was glad for, but also disappointed by the thickness of his jumper. Hadrian leant into the touch, moving toward the heir of Slytherin, letting the wizard believe that Hadrian was being lured in by his touch, his magic, his presence (which wasn't entirely untrue, admittedly, but Hadrian was doing this with _full awareness_ of what Tom was trying to accomplish, not any sort of naivete). And besides, if Hadrian was judging correctly, and he was fairly certain that he was indeed, his attraction towards Tom was far from unrequited.

 “He may not express his distaste for creatures of your kind now, when he can use you to his advantage, but he will.” Tom's lips brushed the Peverell heir's ear as he spoke, eliciting waves of that odd tingling sensation the vampire had come to associate with Slytherin's heir. Hadrian could smell the faint, tantalising scent of fresh rain and musk which emanated from Tom, and it was working wonders on his libido. The vampire gave an indulgent, if not wholly intentional, shudder, and allowed his eyes to slip closed.

 But as much as he was enjoying this, he needed to move things along. He still needed to purchase a few select ingredients from the apothecary for his Blood-Substituting potions, which he had taken to drinking daily, despite the fact that they didn't entirely sate his thirst.

 Hadrian hummed slightly, and placed his free hand on Tom's, relishing the quick intake of breath he was rewarded with. He stroked the top of the brunette's hand in contemplation. _Riddle thinks that Grindelwald is duplicitous, does he?_ Hadrian's next words were intoned in a seductive whisper.

 “In other news, water is wet.”

 Tom stiffened, and Hadrian pointedly removed the half-blood's hand from its place on Hadrian's arm.

 “Not that I don't appreciate your efforts, Tom,” he began with a wide sensual smirk, and a flash of fangs “But I'd appreciate it if you would just ask for what it is that you want.”

 His declaration was met with a slightly bitter glare that soon faded into smile as the brunette began to chuckle. Tom shook his head in mirth, and Hadrian found himself momentarily enraptured by the way the light played off of the wizard's dark hair.

 “I apologise, I should have known that you wouldn't be so easily deceived.”

 Hadrian shrugged, forcing himself to think only of the conversation and not Tom's fine physical attributes. “Nevertheless, you have caught my interest. What is this 'proposition' which you made reference to in your letter?”

 “Well, if we are going to be quite candid, I'll just say that I am raising an army, and that I would be glad to have you as an ally in any up and coming war efforts,”

 “As much as I appreciate the offer, Tom, you must know that I can hardly commit to—”

 “Hear me out,” Tom interrupted, and Hadrian fell back against his seat with a defeated sigh.

 “Fine, but what makes you think that I would be willing to fight alongside you and your _Knights of Walpurgis?”_ the vampire took a feral sort of satisfaction at the rare shock that showed itself on Tom's face at his casual use of the name. It was gone all too soon, though, as the half-blood quickly schooled his expression into one of indifference. To Hadrian's disappointment, the wizard didn't respond to his remark with any surprised exclamation, though. Instead, he merely continued on with his argument.

 “Look, Hadrian. I know you,” Hadrian wanted to scoff, but really Tom knew more of his secrets than anyone else alive. The thought very nearly brought a lump to his throat. “I know you and even though you may act as though the fate of others does not concern you, I know that you will not be content to merely stop Grindelwald. If you only go that far, Dark wizards and creatures will continue to be oppressed by the Light. Can you really live with yourself knowing that you can do something to help them?”

 Hadrian frowned. _This must be what Tom feels like when I know so much about him,_ he thought. But as disconcerting the fact that Tom knew some of the inner workings of his mind was, Hadrian knew that it was true. And if Hadrian joined Tom ( _joined_ , not _followed_ , mind you. Peverells were _never_ followers), others would follow. Others would follow _Hadrian_ , in fact.

 The vampire thought back to his encounter with Ragnok in Gringotts, of how the Goblin had pledged his people's support in a war for equality.

 Perhaps...Perhaps, if he survived his inevitable battle with Grindelwald, Hadrian _would_ join Tom.

 They could lead a revolution; provide a better life for the next generation of Dark creatures and wizards alike. But although the thought of a world in which his kind could live without fear was enticing, yes, Hadrian knew that politics were never so simple.

 They would be labeled as anarchists, as murderers, as cruel, merciless, monsters.

 He met Tom's eyes across the table.

 “Perhaps, Tom. Perhaps. I shall need time to mull it over in my mind.”

 Tom's eyes lit up with triumph, which although not unexpected, left Hadrian feeling rather uncomfortable.

 “Of course. Take all the time you need.” his smirk was predatory, and Hadrian slid back his chair to stand.

 “As much as I have enjoyed our conversation, Tom, I'm afraid that I must depart. I have several errands to run before the day is out.” Hadrian slid his chair away from the table, and turned away from the table to don his cloak and scarf. As he did, though, he felt a pair of strong arms slip around his jumper-clad waist. The distinctive tingling sensation left no doubt as to whom the arms belonged. Hadrian tensed as he turned in Tom's arms, his cloak still clutched in his fist as he faced the wizard in question. His eyes met Tom's which were alight with lust and just above Hadrian's own.

 “Tom, what—?”

 His words were cut off as Tom pressed a pair of soft lips to Hadrian's full ones in a deliberate kiss.

 For a moment, the vampire was too shocked to do much of anything. The pleasurable sensation of their magic mixing was multiplied tenfold from any handshake, and it made Hadrian dizzy, and automatically his eyes fell shut. But when Tom's lips began to move against his, Hadrian still had enough sense to kiss back, tilting his head to the side and dropping his coat so that one hand gripped Tom's shoulder and the other found the back of the wizard's neck.

 Their lips moved together slowly, sensually, and perhaps just a little bit desperately. Tom's arms wound tightly around Hadrian, pulling him even closer, and Hadrian found his mouth opening of its own accord when the other man's tongue ran purposefully along his lower lip.

 Tom tasted just as he smelled; of autumn rains and soft musk and _Merlin_ , Hadrian didn't think that any other kiss would ever compare to this one. From there, it became a battle of dominance. The Slytherin heir gripped Hadrian so tightly he was sure that bruises would mar the pale skin of his hips later, and the vampire returned the favour, slicing the brunette's lip with a fang and sucking forcefully at the blood. Tom mewled into the kiss, but the savage satisfaction Hadrian felt at the noise was short lived, as he soon found himself gasping against the other's lips when the Slytherin heir began to intentionally channel his magic into the kiss. Hadrian shuddered, clinging to Tom's shoulders for fear of collapsing, as he felt the Dark, dangerous, luxurious magic press against his own.

 And all at once, it was gone. The kiss ended as quickly as it had begun, with Tom pulling away and smirking at Hadrian with blood dripping from his lips.

 “I do hope that you'll seriously consider my proposition,” Tom stated huskily into Hadrian's ear. His tongue flicking out to lick along the Peverell Lord's earlobe. Hadrian snapped his head to the side, looking accusingly at Tom now that he was becoming more conscious of what had just happened. But before he could so much as open his mouth to question the man, Tom had disappeared out the door of the pub and into the street bustling with students.

 Hadrian was left standing in the middle back of the Three Broomsticks alone, one hand pressed to his swollen lips and wondering what the _fuck_ he had gotten himself into.


	14. Hadrian's Illness

**Hadrian's Illness**

.

.

.

.

“ _He who has a why to live can bear almost any how._ _”_

–Friedrich Nietzsche

.

.

.

.

The Slytherin Common Room was quiet. Silent, even, save for the crackling of the fire and the sound of water lapping against the underwater windows. Midnight came and passed without consequence, and it was silence that welcomed in the morning of All Hallows' Eve. The few windows, which during the day cast dim, greenish light into the Dungeons, now looked out into the fathomless depths of the Black Lake, which was dark and quiet in its sleep. 

 Even the Giant Squid, which occasionally deigned to frighten the younger Slytherins with taps against the panes of glass, was absent. In their dormitories, the denizens of the House of Snakes slept soundly, some with snores and others silently, but in the dormitory of the seventh-year boys, one bed was conspicuously unoccupied. This bed was the bed closest to the single window in the room, and the bed belonging to one Tom Riddle, Head Boy of Hogwarts, Heir of Slytherin, and to those privy to certain sensitive information, Lord Voldemort.

 But it wasn't only Tom's bed that was empty in the dead of night, for the bed next to it, the one belonging to the incompetent and unobtrusive Julian Pearce, was also vacant. Only this absence was less noticeable, for the bed's curtains were drawn and even had they not been, the room's other residents would be quite unlikely to care for the fact that that particular bed's usual occupant was missing.

 But if, on the off chance that they did, for some strange reason, actually wonder about Julian's absence, all a concerned roommate would have to do to find him would be to exit the room, turn left, and meander down the cold stone hallway which led to the Common Room. There, on the couch, they would find Julian Pearce curled up in a large armchair in front of the grand fireplace, his nose buried in a book.

 A log shifted in the flames as the fire burnt down, releasing a flurry of sparks and a distinct popping noise, thunderous in the quiet of the witching hour. The sound, combined with the slight change in light quality, caused the petit figure curled in the chair to look up from the tome in his hands, blinking blearily.

 Sickly purple bruises decorated the pallid skin beneath his muddy eyes, and his fingers shook slightly as he turned the pages of his book. His darkish hair was greasy and uncombed, his Hogwarts uniform rumpled.

 Hadrian hadn't slept in a week.

 He'd had to give up his training six days ago, when he became too weak for any sort of physical exertion, and for the past four days, the vampire had been subsisting solely on Blood-substituting potions, too clumsy and delirious to hunt. Yesterday, he'd vomited when he tried to take the potion. The hunger gnawed at him, but his body refused any of the false nutritional potions, as well as any for pain.

 Samsa had taken to curling up around his small torso and accompanying him everywhere, and although the serpent was usually somewhat glib, Hadrian could tell that even she was worried about him.

 Hadrian closed the book he had been reading, his shoulders sagging in defeat. It was a book titled _Austrian Magical Maladies,_ and it had been written by some traveller from centuries ago whose sanity was little more than questionable. This was what Hadrian's search had digressed into, and _still_ he didn't know what was wrong with him. Books on health and diseases and infections and curses were piled high around Hadrian's chair, and on the small coffee table beside it, where he had lain down his wand.

 Sighing, the vampire abandoned his latest, useless book in favour of a new one. He could feel Samsa's coils contract a bit when he shifted, causing a shock of pain to run up his spine. Grimacing, he looked down at the title of the new book: _Infectious Diseases of the Merpeople_.

 Fantastic.

 But really, it was just about as likely that he'd find his illness here as it was anywhere else. He'd already been through all of the disease books in his personal library, and so now he had moved on to Hogwarts's store.

 At one point, he'd searched for illnesses that were vampire-specific, but it had been all in vain. Vampires didn't _get_ sicknesses. Hadrian cursed the fact that he was such an anomaly. A vampire born of two born vampires. Perhaps the reason that there were no records suggesting that there had ever been another of his kind was due not to the fact that one had _never existed_ , but rather because anyone like Hadrian died of mysterious illnesses before they could make a name for themselves.

 Hadrian turned back to the new book, ignoring the crick that had appeared in his neck. It wasn't the worst pain he was enduring at the moment, and no doubt any attempts to alleviate it would merely end in more agony. He settled deeper into the recess of the armchair, feet tucked under him and shoulders hunched as if in some futile attempt to ward of any more pain.

 It was this scene which Tom Riddle walked in upon when he entered the Common Room several minutes later, smelling of damp stone and cold, no doubt having been in the Chamber of Secrets.

 Hadrian's eyes snapped up to him several seconds after he entered, his usually lightening-quick reflexes sluggish. In fact, were it not for Tom's unique and immense magic, the vampire almost wondered whether he would have noticed the Heir of Slytherin at all.

 For a few beautiful seconds, Hadrian thought that maybe, just maybe, Tom would walk up to the dormitory without stopping, without noticing the small, ugly boy sitting in the armchair. Alas, fate didn't smile upon the last Peverell, and Tom's observational skills and curiosity brought him wandering over to just behind where 'Julian' was sitting.

 “What are you reading?” Tom asked, and Hadrian pretended to be surprised by the sound of his voice, jumping slightly in his seat and dropping his book.

 “Oh– Riddle, I– I didn't see you there.” he bit his lip in a false, nervous gesture. 'Julian' was terrified of Tom.

 “Obviously,” the half-blood drawled, “But you didn't answer my question.”

 “Y–Your question?” Hadrian looked up at Tom fearfully, as though afraid to make eye-contact. “Oh, right. I'm, uh, I'm reading about sicknesses. I've been feeling a bit under the weather, you see, and Madame Novak said that there wasn't anything wrong with me, just stress, you know, but I thought I'd do a bit of reading for my self, and, well, I haven't found anything yet, but it looks like maybe–”

 “You're reading a book about _Mermish Diseases_ , Pearce. Of _course_ you won't find whatever you're searching for there.” _You idiot._

 Hadrian winced, as though the harsh words had stung him, but really it was more in reaction to a sudden bout of nausea which was threatening to overwhelm him.

 “Oh, I, uh, I guess I didn't realise that. Thank you.” Hadrian closed the book, feeling queasy. _Probably useless anyways,_ he thought. “I guess I'll just go to bed now, I guess.” He got up to leave, laying the book atop a randomly chosen pile and beginning his awkward shuffling toward the dormitories. He needed to get out of here. He didn't want to spend another second with Riddle, not when he was weak, vulnerable, likely to slip up.

 “Pearce,” the deep, smooth voice which haunted Hadrian's dreams, on the rare occasion he found himself capable of sleeping, called. “You've forgotten your wand.” The vampire cursed Merlin, Morgana, Grindelwald, and Tom _Bloody_ Riddle for the interruption. He couldn't take any more of this.

 “I–I did? Oh, sorry.” he turned around, meeting Tom's gaze with dull, frightened eyes. In reality, Hadrian was wary. He didn't have his real wands on him at the moment, and if Tom decided to attack him for any reason, he could hardly retaliate with wandless magic. It would be too suspicious for 'Julian', but also, the vampire didn't think he could get a wandless spell out in his current state.

 Tom reached for where 'Julian's' wand lay on the table, his eyes bored as they assessed the wand.

 But when the half-blood's fingers closed around the handle of the wand, something terrible happened.

 Hadrian could feel Tom's magic swelling, whirling around the room as it interacted with the wand. A small shower of silver sparks erupted from the tip, and the Slytherin looked at the wand as if it had just bitten him. Hadrian's mind was reeling. His wand had just accepted _Tom Riddle_ as its master. Granted, the sparks and magic were nothing so dramatic as what Hadrian had experienced when he purchased the wand at age eleven, but that didn't change the fact that somehow, to wand had just chosen Tom.

 When their eyes met, Tom's were red.

 “What kind of wand is this?” he asked, his voice icy.

 “H–Holly, eleven inches.” the vampire barely remembered to stutter.

 “The core?”

 “Um, Ph–Phoenix feather. Dumbledore's phoenix, I think.” Hadrian bit his lip, and clasped his hands anxiously.

 Tom's dark eyebrows drew together in a frown, and were it not for Hadrian's advanced hearing, he might just have missed the quietly muttered “Brother wands,” as Tom turned to examine the wand in earnest.

 Hadrian let out a quiet, albeit involuntary, gasp. The Slytherin heir glared at him darkly.

  _Brother wands? Is it possible?_ Hadrian thought back to all of the times when he had been close to Tom (the thought might have brought blood rushing to his cheeks were it not for the gravity of the situation), but he'd never thought too much about the other man's wand until now. He knew that it was light in colour, longer than 'Julian''s, and likely about the same length as Hadrian's actual wands, but other than that, he'd thought nothing of it until it was revealed that the wand which had so mysteriously chosen Hadrian also chose Tom.

 “Where is your family from?” the half-blood's voice broke through his thoughts, and Hadrian thought quickly, trying to remember where he was supposed to be from. In all his years at Hogwarts, no one had cared to ask such questions of 'Julian', and thus he was out of practice answering them.

 Nevertheless, Hadrian was able to quickly remember himself, and replied promptly. “F–France, but, um, my mum's Italian.”

 Tom eyed him calculatingly. This was so very, very, unfortunate. The last thing he needed right now was a suspicious Tom Riddle. Generally, prodigious rising Dark Lords were notorious for finding information if they so desired. In Hadrian's experience, anyway.

 “Are you _Dark_?” Hadrian didn't have to feign the incredulous expression he now directed toward Tom. _Merlin,_ he thought, _you don't just go around asking wizards if they happen to be Dark._ Practicing Dark magic was quite taboo in Britain's wizarding society, not to mention illegal and punishable by an indefinite stay in Azkaban. Sure, he could understand Tom's desire to know if perhaps 'Julian' was Dark, as right now he seemed far too ordinary a person to possess Tom's brother wand, but the half-blood couldn't honestly expect him to say that he _was_ , could he?

 “Merlin, no,” Hadrian replied, pushing an offended frown to the forefront of his expression. No self-respecting pureblood would admit to being Dark, even if they were, for fear of being turned over to the Ministry. And besides, if 'Julian' were to admit to being Dark, Tom would no doubt investigate those claims. Claims that could not be substantiated, for Pearce was not a Dark name.

 By this time, Hadrian could tell that Tom was beginning to get angry. No doubt Hadrian would be too, if he were a narcissistic Dark wizard who had just discovered that his wand had a brother (rare enough on its own) whose master was scorned by the entirety of Hogwarts, and thought to be incompetent.

 And Tom _hated_ 'Julian Pearce', Hadrian knew that. He'd perpetuated that abhorrence himself, after all.

 Tom stalked toward him gracefully, and Hadrian backed up until he came to one of the Common Room's stone walls. The half-blood's magic was sparking angrily, lashing out at Hadrian. It was all the vampire could do to hold on to his restraint. Seeking reassurance, he gently pressed shaking fingers to the small rune at the back of his neck. Tom froze in his approach, staring at the vampire as if trying to remember something long forgotten.

 Seeming to shake himself out of his momentary lapse, Tom continued his approach. Hadrian forced himself to cower back against the cold stone. If the Slytherin _touched_ him, he would lose it. Lose his restraint on his magic, his hunger, and maybe his mind.

 “ _ **What**_ **is** _ **it about you?”**_ the words were hissed, Parseltongue, from Tom's lips which Hadrian knew from experience were soft and talented and _Merlin, he needs to get away from me,_ thought Hadrian. He forced himself to react to the Parseltongue as most speakers would, cringing away. He was glad that Tom wasn't a vampire, and therefore couldn't smell his arousal. _Please, if there is a God out there, don't let me do anything stupid,_ he prayed.

 Just as he thought that, he felt Samsa shift under his baggy uniform, distracting him from his thoughts. _Thank you,_ thought Hadrian, and although her sudden wakefulness was likely due more to Tom's use of Parseltongue than the vampire's prayers, he vowed to light some candles for Samhain later in the day.

 Suitably distracted, Hadrian now turned his worries to the serpent coiled around his middle. She'd always been too curious about Tom, and now he could feel her shifting, uncoiling, and if he didn't do something soon, she would reveal herself, and thus Hadrian.

 But he could hardly speak to her, tell her to keep hidden. His use of Parseltongue would be just as bad. But Tom was so close to him now, and there was no way he could slip past the Head Boy without touching him. But he had no choice. Steeling himself, Hadrian pushed away from the wall keeping a tight hold on his magic. He moved as quickly as he could feeling as ill as he was, still fleet by human standards, and wrenched his wand from Tom's grasp.

 It warmed in his hand, bringing with it a gust of air swirling around the Common Room and a shower of sparks. It was as though the wand were reaffirming its allegiance to Hadrian.

 “I– I, um, have to go to bed. Early morning and all, you know.” Tom was frozen, shocked, staring at him with a blank mask, though Hadrian could decipher his disbelief.

 The half-blood opened his mouth to respond, and no doubt inquire angrily about what 'Julian' had just done, but Hadrian was already hurrying off towards the dormitories. When he reached the seventh-year boys' dormitory, he flung the door open with a bang, and practically fell into his bed, trembling. But he wasn't safe here. Tom would no doubt be rushing in any minute, armed and ready for some sort of confrontation. And Hadrian could feel himself wobbling, teetering on the edge of some precipice and trying to stand steadily amidst gusts of wind that threatened to overthrow him.

 Gathering what magic he could to him, Hadrian conjured up a picture of the Room of Requirement in his mind. He faded, landing in a heap on a cold stone floor which grew warmer even as he thought of it. Pressing a hand to the back of his neck and dropping his glamour and magical restraints, Hadrian curled up into a small ball, arms wrapped around himself as he tried to cope with the pain of hunger, lust, fear and adrenaline combined.

 He could feel blackness seeping into the corners of his vision, the room spinning, and as he rocked miserably back and forth, Hadrian's only thought was _what is happening to me?_

 As darkness overtook his sight entirely, the vampire went limp, succumbing to unconsciousness.

.

.

.

.

Tom sat in the large armchair before the fireplace, and contemplated the boy who had been sitting in the place just minutes before. 

 Julian Pearce, incompetent, foolish project partner, and menace extroardinaire, was now an enigma.

 An ugly, weak, idiotic enigma, but an enigma nonetheless.

 An enigma with Tom's brother wand.

 The Slytherin heir growled under his breath, picking up the book that Pearce had been reading. It was, indeed, a book on Mermish infectious diseases.

 Curious.

 Tom set the book down, reaching instead for another in the pile. _Rare Ailments of Fourteenth Century Muggle Japan_. What in Merlin's name could the boy be doing with such books? Pearce's wan complexion lent credence to the pureblood's assertion that he was feeling ill, but why would he be looking for possible remedies in such obscure books? Tom examined the piles, which must have added up to thirty or forty texts in total. They were all equally odd and esoteric, from sailor's diseases to myths about lycanthropy.

  _None of it made any sense._

 And there was still that intangible, subtle feeling lurking at the edges of Tom's mind. The feeling that there was something wrong about the situation, that he was missing something vital.

 There was something familiar about the way Pearce had touched the back of his neck. He'd seen someone do that before, but _who was it?_ Or perhaps it was just a nervous habit, one that Pearce had done in passing before, and one that Tom's subconscious had stored away in the recesses of his mind.

 Tom sighed in frustration before standing. He would have yawned, were it not so plebeian. Footsteps slow, still lost in thought, Tom made his way to his dormitory at a sedate pace. The door was wide open, when he came to it, and upon entering the room, Tom closed it carefully behind him, trying to keep from making any noise.

 His bed was at the far end of the room, next to Pearce's, and when he came to his bed, the half-blood sat down slowly, facing in the direction of Pearce. The pureblood's curtains were drawn, and the opaque green cloth blocked any view Tom might otherwise have had of the boy. The Head Boy reached out with his magic, tentatively, testing to see if there was anything unusual about Pearce's weak magic that he had missed. But when Tom's magic pushed its way through the heavy curtains hiding the Pearce boy's bed, he found it empty.

  _Impossible,_ thought Tom. _Where else could he have gone?_

 Pearce had run towards the dormitories, Tom was sure. The Slytherin heir rose to his feet, manually drawing aside the curtains. The bed was, as suspected, vacant.

 Could the boy have gone into another room? Did he have friends among the younger Slytherin boys? Tom wracked his brain, trying to remember some instance in which he had seen Pearce interact with other Snakes.

 There were none, that Tom was aware of, but before the damnable Charms assignment, the half-blood had hardly known that Pearce existed. It was possible too, however much Tom hated to admit it, that Pearce could have been interacting with others below Tom's notice, covertly. But surely Tom, master of masks as he was, would have seen through him? Pearce couldn't _possibly_ be more than he seemed, could he?

 In a way, Tom hoped that he was. It was mortifyingly embarrassing to have a wand whose brother belonged to, well, a disgrace like Pearce.

 Tom returned to his bed and lay down, but he couldn't bring himself to sleep.

 For a long time, he lay there staring at the stone ceiling, and wondering what he was missing.

…................................................................

 “Julian Pearce,”

 Silence hung in the Defence classroom in the wake of Professor Merrythought's voice. It was the end of class, and the elderly woman was calling roll. For the third day in a row, the previously unnoticed Slytherin was absent.

 Teachers were panicking, running about the castle in search of the missing student, but he remained stubbornly missing. Professor Slughorn was particularly distressed, because when he had been questioned about the student, he had known little more than nothing. None of the other teachers had anything to say about Pearce either. He wasn't exceptional enough to warrant praise, nor troublesome enough to warrant punishment, so rare was the teacher who had so much as spoken with him in the past month of school.

 Tom hadn't said anything to anyone. He knew that he was the last person to have seen the boy, and probably the only person to have spoken to him in the past weak, but the Slytherin heir was too intelligent to say anything about his possible involvement in Pearce's disappearance.

 In the hallways, it was like sixth year all over again. Students moved in packs, scared to be alone, and rumours flew through the Houses that the monster was back, but that this time, it was taking its victims away to its lair.

 Even the Slytherins were fearful. Whereas before only mudbloods had been targeted, the little that was known of Pearce was that he was a pureblood. And if purebloods were disappearing, who was safe?

 In a matter of days, Julian Pearce had gone from being anathema, to being the topic of every conversation, and Tom didn't know what to think of it.

 As silence hung in the air of his NEWT transfiguration class, Tom cleared his throat gently.

 “He's not here, Professor.” he spoke in quiet, polite tones. “Pearce's gone missing, remember?”

 “Oh, of course.” Merrythought shook her grey head, muttering to herself as she made a mark on her list of names. “Another student missing...” In her old age, the woman was becoming forgetful. She was still a decent teacher though, and so Hogwarts kept her. Tom, however, was privy to certain information (being Head Boy, not to mention one of the Professor's favourite students) and knew that Professor Merrythought would be retiring soon. She had been working in the school for fifty years, after all.

 A quiet, musical ringing emanated from a trinket at the front of the classroom, signalling that the class had ended. Merrythought liked to call roll at the end of the lesson because that way it included the tardy students.

 Tom stood and collected his things. It was the last class of the day, and he decide to head off to the library. He'd spent the majority of the time after Pearce went missing reading. Specifically, the half-blood had been researching rare illnesses. The thought had been nagging at him that perhaps, Pearce's disappearance and his sickness were related. It wasn't that he cared about Pearce at all, obviously. The situation was mysterious, though, and Tom did so love a good puzzle.

 So far, though, he hadn't come across any diseases that made people disappear off the face of the earth.

.

.

.

.

When Hadrian awoke, he felt wonderful. 

 Better than wonderful, really.

 In fact, he Hadn't felt this good in, well, ever. Or at least not since the time he and Tom had kissed.

 He blinked his eyes open slowly, squinting against the light of the Room of Requirement. The light dimmed. He sat up quickly, and immediately regretted his decision as he became dizzy. After a moment, the dizziness passed, and the vampire slowly, carefully, pushed himself off of the floor. The Room was a simple, dreary thing, Hadrian noted as he looked around. _How did I get here?_ He wondered, before the memories came flooding back to him.

 Tom. The wand.

  _Damn_.

 It was a miracle that he had managed to fade here at all, considering his less than stable state.

 Speaking of which, Hadrian examined himself suspiciously. He felt entirely recovered, though from what he was still unsure. His magic felt as strong as it had been before, and when he let fly a few curses, they were as strong as could be expected from the holly wand he was using.

 Suspiciously, Hadrian looked at the room around him. Something felt off. He was missing something.

 “ _ **Samsa,”**_ he hissed, and was rewarded with the sound of scales sliding over stone.

 “ _ **I see that you are once more in the land of the living,”**_ she hissed, slithering up his leg and coming to rest around his shoulders. Hadrian stroked her head fondly.

 “ _ **How long was I unconscious?”**_ he asked. Samsa had an uncannily accurate sense of time.

 “ _ **Three days,”**_

 Hadrian pursed his lips, surprised. That was not good. Not good at all. He would have been missed in classes, and Tom had probably said something about his illness which he hadn't, in fact, reported to Madame Novak. But perhaps Tom had been wary of drawing attention to himself, or rather, wary of drawing attention to himself in a negative situation.

 For once, Hadrian hoped that the half-blood's manipulation and forethought had led him to lie to the Professors.

 “ _ **Well I suppose I should make a reappearance, then. Wouldn't want them to worry.”**_ he knew that he could hardly just show up in the hallways, acting as though nothing had happened. No, he would have to make up some story, something believable. Perhaps he would appear out of the Forbidden Forrest, saying that he had gone looking for his cat and gotten lost. No one would know that he didn't have a cat.

 Sighing, Hadrian stretched his back. He was rather sore from sleeping on the hard stone floor for three days, though he still felt infinitely better than he had before. Raising his arms over his head, he stretched the muscles in his shoulders.

 It was then that he felt the first pang of hunger. It was a deep, vicious feeling deep in his gut, and the force of it made Hadrian stagger, lowering his arms to clutch at his abdomen.

 “ _ **Fuck,”**_ he hissed as the pain intensified.

 He hoped to Merlin that this wasn't some twisted encore of the last time.

 But it was different, now. Somehow the hunger began to spread, seeping up into his arms and legs until it wasn't fire gnawing at his gut, but rather magma, flowing through his veins and _burning_.

 Hadrian sank to his knees.

 It felt as though the pain was somehow drawing on his magic, and he could feel the power wrapping around him, squeezing him, suffocating him. Vaguely, he could hear Samsa hissing at him, but her words sounded muffled, as if spoken underwater. She had uncoiled herself from his shoulders at some point, and was now slithering back and forth in front of him. He squeezed his eyes closed.

 He was dying, choking on his own magic as it wound itself tighter and tighter about him, as though in an attempt to squeeze into him through his skin, and he absolutely _refused_ to die now. He had so much more to live for. He needed to fight Grindelwald, and finish his education, and kiss Tom Riddle, and—

  _Merlin, I just need to eat someone_.

 Hadrian froze. That thought was not his own. That thought was _definitely_ not his own. He _never_ thought of feeding as eating people. That made it seem too macabre, too disgusting, too heartless. No, he _fed_. He did not _eat people_. The hunger clamped down on his gut again, and Hadrian clawed at himself, trying in vain to distract from the sensation of being consumed by his own magic.

  _I can just go out into the hallway. There are plenty of students. No one would notice if I ate one. Or two. Or three. Or—_

 No. Hadrian clutched his head, pulling on his hair. This was _wrong_. These thoughts were incongruous with his own, as if they were pulled from some primal vampiric instinct which made him crave—

  _I'll eat them. I'll eat them all._

 —blood.

 And thus it all clicked in to place. Primal vampiric instincts indeed. The magic pressing into him, trying to claw its way under his skin wasn't his at all; it was his _parents_ '. And the hunger, that was his body's way of coping with the foreign magic.

 And how could he have _missed_ it? _T_ his wasn't some disease at all; it was his bloody _Inheritance_.

 Granted, he shouldn't have come into it for at least three more years, but when had Hadrian Cassius Peverell ever done anything the _normal_ way? The magic squeezed yet more tightly against him, and he coughed. A bit of blood came out. Alas, knowing why this was happening still left a major problem. It didn't change the fact that—

  _They're defenceless against me. Mere humans are powerless to deny me their flesh and blood when—_

—he needed to feed. Preferably now, before his instincts overcame him and he attacked the student body of Hogwarts. But he could hardly just appear in some random muggle town; he would obliterate it, and he refused to kill off so many muggles needlessly.

  _The blood of wizards is so sweet. It will paint the walls of Hogwarts when I have finished my meal._

 Hadrian needed help. Badly. But who could he turn to? His thoughts turned briefly to the Bulgarian vampire colony he had stayed at for a brief time over the summer, but he doubted they would be strong enough to hold him back should he choose to attack a Muggle village. No, he needed someone powerful. Someone at least as powerful as Hadrian himself. Someone who would know what to do with a vampire coming into his Inheritance.

  _He needed Tom Riddle, damn it._

 “ _ **Samsa,”**_ he hissed through the pain. _**“Samsa, I need you to go get Tom.”**_ he could only hope that she was listening. His ears were ringing and he doubted he would be able to hear the sibilant tones of Parseltongue.

 “ _ **Tell him to bring blood,”**_ where Tom would get blood he had no idea, but he could only hope that the half-blood valued Hadrian to assist him.

.

.

.

.

Tom was sitting in the library, reading, when heard the hissing. 

 At first, he ignored it. It was probably just some of those Ravenclaw girls that liked to watch him while he was studying. They thought books were sexy.

 Soon, though, the hissing became more distinct, and Tom was able to recognise that it wasn't in fact just hissing; it was Parseltongue.

 He whipped his head around, scanning the area.

 “ _ **Who's there?”**_ he hissed, quiet so as not to disturb the other students in the library. A replying hiss had him craning his neck to look up at the top bookshelf near where he was sitting. A snake was peaking over the edge, its scaly yellow and black head visible amidst the books. It was a forest cobra.

 “ _ **You are the one called Tom, speaker, are you not?”**_ the snake asked. Judging from her voice, the serpent was female.

 “ _ **I am. How you you know my name?”**_ he replied. He didn't meet too many snakes.

 “ _ **It is what my human calls you,”**_

 Tom reeled. The snake had a _master_? There was another Parselmouth?

 “ _ **Impossible. I am the only speaker.”**_ the snake seemed to chuckle at his comment, shaking her head condescendingly.

 “ _ **You are wrong, obviously.”**_ If Tom had any doubt that snakes could be snide, it was obliterated right then. But before he could formulate a reply, the serpent was speaking once more. _**“It matters not, speaker. I have been sent to fetch you.”**_

 “ _ **To fetch me?”**_ he raised his eyebrows in disbelief. He would most certainly not be fetched. Fetching, perhaps, but not fetched.

 “ _ **Yes. You are supposed to bring blood, too.”**_ Blood? Who did the snake think she was, to make insane demands of the Heir of Slytherin?

 “ _ **Who is your master, serpent?”**_ he hissed, becoming slightly less friendly.

 “ _ **My master,”**_ she paused thoughtfully. _**“I think that he calls himself Hadrian. I just call call him Nuisance, but right now I think he's dying.”**_

 Tom didn't know what part of the snake's declaration was the most shocking. Surely Hadrian, _his_ Hadrian, couldn't be a speaker. But then again, surely he couldn't be _dying_ either. Oh well.

  _Only one way to find out,_ thought Tom.

 “ _ **Fine. Take me to him.”**_ the snake bobbed her head, and when Tom proffered his hand, she slithered down his arm to coil about his shoulders.

 “ _ **You need to bring blood. My human drinks it, you know.”**_

 Yes. Definitely _his_ Hadrian.

 “ _ **I have blood,”**_ he replied. He hardly had time to go play vampire if Hadrian were truly dying. His own would just have to do. 

…..........................................................

 When the snake, who had introduced herself as Samsa, began giving him directions, Tom hadn't expected to end up in front of the Room of Requirement.

 “Here? Hadrian's in here?” he asked incredulously.

 “Yes. I did lead you here, did I not?”

 Tom shook his head in resigned disbelief.

 Pacing back and forth in front of the blank wall, Tom wished for wherever Hadrian was. After a few laps of pacing, a door appeared. It was plain and wooden, and rather innocuous, but as soon as Tom grabbed the doorknob, he could feel the magic inside the room. He pulled the door open, and was immediately assaulted by a wave of Hadrian's magic.

 The vampire in question was leaning casually against one of the bare stone walls, smirking at Tom. He was wearing a Hogwarts uniform, complete with Slytherin tie. His clothing was wrinkled and Tom could see angry scratches on his hands and face.

 “Hadrian? What is the meaning of this?”

 The vampire pushed himself away from the wall, waltzing toward Tom with a sensual sway in his gait.

 “I've reached my Inheritance, dear Tom,” the vampire hissed, and Tom stepped away from him. He didn't know all that much about vampires, but he knew that being in the presence of one who was bloodthirsty with the magic of their Inheritance wasn't a remotely good idea. “Earlier, when I sent Samsa to you, I thought you could stop me. I thought that maybe, since you are so powerful, you could keep me from attacking the students. I know better now.” the vampire let out an insane cackle. Tom took another step back. This wasn't the Hadrian he knew.

 “There's so much magic, Tom!” Hadrian spun in a circle, his arms out and palms facing upwards. “Can't you feel it?”

  _Yes_. He could feel it. It felt heady, intoxicating. It filled the room to the brim, and swirled around in currents like a summer breeze.

 It was latent now, but it was dangerous.

 “You can't stop me, Tom. Did you know that?” Hadrian grinned maniacally, and Tom frowned, not liking where this was going. “I'm more powerful than you could ever hope to be now.

 “I'm going to eat the students, but _first_ , dear Tom,” Hadrian's eyes hardened, and the vampire was suddenly directly in front of Tom, holding his jaw with strong fingers. _**“I'm going to eat you.”**_

 And then the magic was everywhere, strangling Tom with its intensity.

 He pushed Hadrian away from him, massaging his jaw and drawing his wand. Hadrian was right; his magic was stronger than it had been before.

 But Tom was powerful too, and considering the fact that the vampire currently attempting to make a meal out of him was, for all intents and purposes, immortal, Tom had no qualms about using Dark magic against him. In a rush of fire and air, a shield exploded up around Tom, warding off Hadrian's magic. Flames had no particularly bad effects on vampires, but they did burn them the same as any human.

 The Heir of Slytherin gathered his magic to him, preparing himself, before he lashed out. Hadrian, unsuspecting, was thrown back against one of the walls. His body made a dull thud when it his the stone. The vampire pushed back with his magic, but it was frenzied. The vampire was unused to the amount of magic, and thus unused to wielding it. Tom had the advantage.

 He pushed wave after wave of magic toward the last Peverell. The vampire flinched each time his shields were breached, snarling and exposing his fangs. He was fearsome, but he was backed against a wall. Tom continued to fight his way toward him. Neither used spells, instead just directing the magic with their thoughts. And Tom's thoughts were more organized, more reasonable, and stronger. Finally, the half-blood got close enough to Hadrian that he could disarm him and use his magic as restraints, holding the vampire against the wall. He pinned his wrists and ankles in place, and did his best to withstand the barrage of magic he was being attacked with.

 But now that he had Hadrian restrained, Tom didn't know what to do. It was obvious that he needed to feed, but—

 Oh, fuck it.

 Tom wandlessly sliced a gash across his wrist, careful not to go too deep. Immediately, Hadrian fell still, fixated on the blood. Carefully, as though afraid of startling a wild animal (which currently wasn't too far from the truth), Tom lifted his wrist to Hadrian's lips. Immediately, he could feel fangs slipping into the soft flesh. He winced slightly, but didn't take his eyes away from Hadrian's, which were still fixed on him.

 After a few seconds, when he was fairly certain that he wasn't going to be attacked, Tom loosened the restraints on Hadrian's wrists. The vampire clasped Tom's forearm with both hands, holding it in place as he drank.

 The sight was fascinating, as was the sensation. He could feel Hadrian's lips against his skin, the pleasurable tingling of skin contact with the vampire, could see the gentle bobbing of Hadrian's throat as he swallowed down Tom's lifeblood.

 And the more he drank, the more Tom could feel the vampire's magic withdrawing, calming, until it was almost tranquil.

 It was about then when Tom began to feel the blood-loss, feeling weak and lightheaded, and then Hadrian's fangs were sliding out from his skin, and an arm was slipping around him, steadying him. Gently, Hadrian guided Tom onto a couch, which the Room must have provided, and leaned over the half-blood to tend to his wounds.

 “Thank you, Tom,” the vampire said in dulcet tones, and then “Episkey,” healing the cut on Tom's wrist.

 It was then that Tom noticed the wand which Hadrian was holding. It wasn't one of his two customary ones, but rather a cherry one that Tom had had the displeasure of examining just days ago. The half-blood's eyes flicked from the wand to Hadrian's face to the Slytherin robes he was wearing, and came to a rather shocking conclusion. If he could call anything shocking after today.

 “Hadrian,” he said, his voice measured “You have quite a lot of explaining to do.”

 The vampire smiled tiredly, and pressed a kiss to Tom's mouth.

 “I know, Tom,” he murmured against his lips. “I know.”


	15. Matters of Trust

**Matters of Trust**

.

.

.

.

“ _Never trust anyone, especially the people you admire. Those are the ones who will make you suffer the worst blows.”_

-Carlos Ruiz Zafón, _The Shadow of the Wind_

.

.

.

.

Physically, Hadrian felt marvellous. He could feel his new magic flowing through his veins, pulsing in time with his heart and swirling around him like an insistent summer zephyr. He felt powerful, and juxtaposed with how miserable had felt for the past months (as though he could be blown away by the slightest breeze), the strength he felt now was nothing short of intoxicating.

Indeed, reconciling that strength with the fear, the _uncertainty_ he felt now, was nigh impossible. But Hadrian knew that somehow he had to find a way to do just that, to regain his customary acumen, and he had to do so quickly. He didn't have enough time to think through each detail, to grow accustomed to his new power, to figure out some way to explain his situation to Tom without making himself vulnerable. And yet he had to, somehow. After all, with a someone as dangerous as Tom Riddle in close proximity, a man had to have his wits about him. And Hadrian was in _quite_ close proximity to said half-blood.

They sat across from each other, staring. 

The leather armchair in which Hadrian sat would ordinarily have been comfortable, and indeed his slim figure was sprawled almost casually, but behind the vampire's viridian eyes, a tempest raged. Any moment now, Tom would recover from his blood loss, and then the questioning would commence. 

Questioning that Hadrian had been actively avoiding for nearly _seven years,_ and was hardly eager to participate in.

And when Tom asked, Hadrian would have to reveal himself. Not that the half-blood didn't _already know_ who he was, for Hadrian had few doubts regarding Tom's intellectual capacity, but somehow the prospect of speaking his secrets aloud made it all seem far more real. _Too_ real.

Hadrian allowed himself a moment of self-pity, briefly entertaining the idea of simply Fading away to some obscure place and living out the rest of his life in anonymity. It would be impossible, though, and certainly childish and impractical, however tempting the thought was; he had to clear this up now, to cement an accord with the half-blood so that Hadrian would know word of his duality wouldn't reach the wrong ears; _any_ ears, for that matter.

The point was that Tom couldn't be allowed to talk, but Hadrian was at a disadvantage in the current situation. He did know a few of Tom's secrets, yes, but they would be difficult to blackmail the half-blood with because they would be nearly impossible for Hadrian to use against Tom. He could reveal Tom's involvement in the Ravenclaw girl's death, but he would have to do so in the guise of Julian Pearce, and Tom had the teachers so wrapped around his finger that there would be virtually no possibility of their believing mediocre 'Julian Pearce' over the exemplar Head Boy, Tom Riddle.

No, blackmail wouldn't work. Not in that fashion, at least. Perhaps he could threaten to destroy one of Tom's Horcruxes, but it would be for the most part an empty threat. He didn't _have access_ to the half-blood's diary _or_ the Resurrection stone which Tom was (infuriatingly) fond of wearing.

Hadrian looked away from the subject of his thoughts, eyes flicking instead to the tapestry-covered walls. The Room of Requirement had transformed since their earlier skirmish, morphing into a cosy sitting room. Hadrian's chair was situated a few feet away from the fire, whose flames crackled merrily and cast flickering shadows across the burgundy tapestries reminiscent of those in Carina's library. Well, the library was Hadrian's now, he supposed. Only Hadrian's.

Lost in his thoughts as he was, and still high with the magic of his inheritance, the vampire didn't notice Tom leaning forward until the heir of Slytherin was practically touching him. 

“So,” said the half-blood, and Hadrian had to grit his teeth to keep from starting in surprise at the proximity of that smooth, low voice, “All this time?”

Hadrian's brows drew together. He had to decide how to go about this immediately. There was no way Tom would allow himself to be _obliviated_ , but could Hadrian perhaps _lie_ his way out of this? Hadrian prided himself on his ability to weave tales, but Tom was hardly as gullible as the vampire's usual audiences. 

Hadrian shifted his gaze from the fireplace, which he had been absently watching, to his enquirer. Tom's eyes were half lidded, no doubt weary from the blood-loss, but his lips were quirked in a pseudo-smirk, as if he was daring Hadrian to attempt to deceive him. The vampire, for once, was not distracted by Tom's undeniable attractiveness; no, he was busy swallowing his pride. Lying to the half-blood would be a waste of time, and worse than that, it would likely damage any trust Tom might have harboured in him. But could _Hadrian_ trust the _half-blood_?

Hadrian had once heard, courtesy of his aggravatingly well-read mother, that the _best way to find out whether you could trust someone is to trust them._

Now seemed like as good a time as any to put that counsel to the test. It wasn't as though he had many other options. Still, he wasn't going to pretend that he was delighted to spill his most well-kept secrets. He just wanted to go back to the dormitory and sleep, to give his magic a chance to settle.

“Don't waste my time asking questions whose answers you already know.” he said, irritation dripping from his words. Tom grinned unabashedly, a gesture as uncharacteristic of the Slytherin as it was obnoxious.

“Fine,” said the half-blood, “Is it a glamour?”

Hadrian scowled. “Of sorts. It doesn't concern you, really.”

“I think _I'll_ be the judge of whether or not it concerns me.” Tom still looked ridiculously pleased with himself. “ _Touchy_ today, aren't we?”

The vampire very nearly growled, but refrained. “You're being rather difficult yourself.”

“Of course I am,” replied Tom “It's ever so entertaining to watch you squirm.” Hadrian's eyes narrowed, but he refused to rise to the bait. He was not _squirming_. “So, have you always been a Parselmouth?”

“Obviously,” Hadrian said. “Have you ever heard of someone _acquiring_ the ability? It's hardly one that can be learned.”

Tom's eyebrows drew together slightly as if in thought, before he shook his head thoughtfully. “No, I suppose I haven't. Yet you are not a Slytherin, and so I must wonder how an Parseltongue could possibly be an innate ability for you. You're not _descended_ from Slytherin, are you?” he queried.

“No, I'm not descended from Slytherin. I _am_ related to him though. He wasn't the first to speak the language of serpents.” the haughty tone in his voice was entirely deliberate, and he relished the look of annoyed puzzlement upon Tom's features. It was an immature, inconsequential victory (if confusing the half-blood could be referred to as a victory at all), but Hadrian was feeling vindictive. 

“But the only Parselmouths are his _descendants_ , are they not?” Tom inquired.

“The only remaining entirely _human_ Parselmouths are from Slytherin's line, yes.” said Hadrian, “But he was neither the first nor the only of his kind, at the time. Slytherin was actually descended from the Peverell line, some of whom were Parselmouths. I don't think the ability was always so rare as it is today, actually.” 

The half-blood hummed in thought before his face closed off abruptly. “So I suppose we're related, then.” he stated, and Hadrian couldn't help but be amused. _Of course_ Tom would be disappointed to realise that he wasn't the only living link to the noble line of Slytherin. He did so enjoy being special.

The corner of Hadrian's mouth twitched, suppressing a smile.“Hardly. The Peverells have been vampires for generations, and being Turned changes one's genetic makeup significantly. Not significantly enough to erase the Parselmouth gene, but...significantly.”

When Tom didn't immediately reply (he appeared to be absorbing the new information, likely forming countless new hypotheses regarding the nature of vampirism and the Parselmouth gene), Hadrian turned his attention back to the fire.

The flames flickered and danced, and Hadrian allowed himself to relax back into his armchair. He was tired, but the feeling was almost pleasant. The quiet of the room and the warmth of the fire would have quickly lulled him to sleep were it not for Tom's presence before him. The drowsiness he felt now was more than understandable, considering the ordeal his body had just undergone. In all truth, it should have been worse. 

The Inheritance process was notoriously exhausting, and the fact that Hadrian was even coherent at all was a testament to the strength of Tom's magic. Usually, when a born vampire went through their Inheritance, they drained at least eight humans. The number increased exponentially with the strength of that vampire's magic, and so it would only be logical that Hadrian needed the blood of, well, more than merely Tom Riddle.

_And yet._

Admittedly, there was nothing 'mere' about the half-blood. Tom's blood was somehow more satisfying than it should have been, and Hadrian ascribed that fact to Tom's overwhelmingly large reserves of magic. It was a well known fact (among vampires, at least) that wizards' blood was far more enjoyable than that of muggles, its magical potency making it both sweeter and more filling, and so Hadrian had drawn the conclusion that that same magical potency must also have some effect on how satisfying the blood was. Tom Riddle had an exceptionally large amount of magical power, and so it was only logical that his blood would sate the way it did. 

When Hadrian focused on his own magic, he could still feel traces of Tom's, likely from the feeding. It was the same sort of magical residue that sometimes lingered after sex. 

The thought brought a humourless smile to the vampire's lips. Sex. Glancing toward Tom, he noted that the half-blood was watching him, observing almost warily. Things had changed now, and Hadrian knew that while Tom hadn't been willing to realise the extent of Hadrian's power before, this incident had opened his eyes, shown him that Hadrian was a _threat_. Perhaps now that he realised the deception Hadrian was capable of, the half-blood would change tactics, and stop his romantic advances.

Hadrian doubted it. 

Knowing Tom, it was more than likely that the half-blood would renew his efforts, if anything. It seemed to Hadrian that Tom relished danger, relished challenges. And Hadrian was a challenge. He wasn't naïve; he knew that Tom was attempting to manipulate him, to use his own attraction against him and mould him into a follower, but two could play that game. 

Hadrian was a _challenge_. He was a challenge that Tom, despite his great intelligence, his great power, his arrogance, would not be able to overcome. Hadrian was not arrogant like Tom was; he would not underestimate his opponent in this game, and for that reason, he would win.

Hadrian smirked, lowering his gaze to rest upon his pale hands, folded in his lap.

His arms and wrists were marred with small scratches he'd inflicted upon himself while trying to suppress his bloodlust, but they were already healing. If he looked at the wounds for long enough, Hadrian could see the skin slowly knitting itself back together, forming scars which would disappear before morning.

_It's good to be back in working order,_ he thought. 

Other ailments, small bruises and nicks he'd acquired during the past weeks when he'd been too ill to heal properly, were disappearing too. Suddenly, the idea struck him that maybe, just maybe, that mysterious scar upon his forehead, the one which had refused to heal for weeks, would have faded now. 

One of his hands flew to his brow before he cold stop himself, and he carefully traced the skin with his fingers. The scar was still there: faint, but discernible to Hadrian's heightened senses by the too-smooth, telling texture of the scar tissue.

As he lowered his hand, Hadrian felt the weight of eyes watching him. He glanced toward Tom, only to meet the very smouldering, very _red_ , gaze of the only other occupant of the room. Tom's eyes were dark, _crimson_ like they were when the half-blood was particularly angry about something; and yet his gaze, though fierce, held something other than rage, something wicked and secret that made the room feel too small.

For the first time, Hadrian noticed that the half-blood's eyes were slitted, like a serpent's.

“ _ **What's**_ **your** _ **problem?”**_ he snapped, his words accidentally slipping out in Parseltongue.

Tom's eyes narrowed, and Hadrian could see the tendons in the half-blood's hands strain as he gripped the arms of his chair. Hadrian smirked predatorily. He remembered that night in the common room, when he had heard Tom speak Parseltongue, however briefly. He didn't begrudge Tom his reaction, for Hadrian knew that from the half-blood's lips, at least, the language was quite sensual.

That didn't, however, give Tom permission to give him that look and then not explain himself. So Hadrian had a scar. _So what?_ Any strange faults in his healing abilities were hardly any of Tom's concern. 

Reaching a hand to press against the rune on the back of his neck, Hadrian raised his glamour enough to conceal the scar. Tom's eyes zeroed in on the motion, and the vampire paused, eyeing him warily.

Hadrian quirked an eyebrow, suspicious. _**“I know I'm attractive, Tom, but if you must stare, please do make an effort to do so discreetly.”**_

It seemed that Tom had grown at least somewhat accustomed to the Parseltongue, because this time, he didn't react outwardly to it. He merely leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and watched Hadrian curiously.

“How do you conceal your magic?” he asked, and Hadrian reminded himself that if Tom could be stoic at the sound of the serpent's tongue, so could he.

Hadrian's face remained impassive, but he once again pressed his fingers to the rune, this time calling forth the magic which would mask his Darkness. In truth, he was hoping that the rune would still have the same effect, now that he had reached his Inheritance. It was certainly more magic to restrain. He watched Tom's features carefully as his magic was locked away, sealed tightly behind layers and layers of complicated spellwork, until at last it was completely hidden. The vampire nearly sighed in relief that it had worked, but refrained, instead electing to continue his observation of Tom's reactions. The halfblood's face revealed next to nothing, but his eyes, which were still a deep scarlet colour, widened just slightly.

“ _ **Don't you think it's a bit obvious, to conceal your magic so completely? Most wizards have at least**_ **some** _ **power, after all.**_ ”

The vampire smirked. _**“**_ **You** _ **didn't notice, did you?”**_ It was a sophomoric remark, but it was _ever so entertaining to watch him squirm_. _**“In any case, I've made sure that 'Julian' is rather ostracised. I have few allies here, and aversion makes people blind to even the most obvious of details.”**_

The Slytherin heir frowned and, slowly, rose from his seated position. Hadrian tensed, eyes trained on the half-blood as he took unhurried steps forward before turning and walking in a slow circle around Hadrian's chair. When Tom moved out of his line of sight, Hadrian stared straight ahead. It would have made him appear weak, to try to follow the movement completely around, as though he couldn't defend himself. He tried to sense where Tom was, but it was difficult with his magic restrained, and the half-blood was intentionally repressing his own. 

So Hadrian listened closely to the sound of his footsteps and the rustling of his robes as he walked, until the sounds of movement stopped directly behind him. Hadrian was holding his breath at this point, intensely aware of the quiet in the room, of the man standing behind him. 

He waited for the half-blood to make whatever move was next in this game of theirs.

When two hands descended upon his shoulders, he shouldn't have been surprised. He should have expected it, and yet he hadn't, and his stomach gave an involuntary leap of surprise and his muscles tensed further, though he hadn't thought that possible.

“What—”

“Shhh,” Tom hushed him, and Hadrian scowled, but didn't say more.

He was acutely aware of the weight of the half-blood's hands on his shoulders, of how they felt cold through the layers of clothing Hadrian wore.

Then, one of the hands began to move along the curve of Hadrian's shoulder, upwards toward his neck. When cold fingers brushed across the rune there, Hadrian nearly panicked, reaching up to remove the unwanted hand.

“Tom, don't touch th—”

Tom's other hand, the one that wasn't on his neck, caught Hadrian's wrist in midair. 

_The audacity!_ Did the half-blood honestly think himself capable of restraining a vampire so easily? Hadrian made to tug his wrist out of Tom's grasp, but the half-blood's hold on him tightened.

“Hold still. I want to try something.”

Hadrian's heart began to palpitate. “Well that's just too bloody bad, isn't it? I'm not some sort of test subject—”

Hadrian's breath hitched as once again, Tom's fingers descended upon the rune. He went still, forgetting to struggle, as he felt Tom's magic funnel into the small black mark, manipulating the layers of spellwork that no one other than Hadrian should have been able to access. The spells tangled and came undone like a spider's web under Tom's touch, and Hadrian couldn't do anything but sag in his seat as he felt the rune's magic tear under the pressure of the half-blood's power. The wards weren't built to withstand so much magic; they collapsed.

In the hearth, the flames leapt impossibly high.

When he felt his magic burst free, Hadrian's throat felt dry and his eyes wet. Those spells had been in place for _years_. They were the most precious gift his mother had ever given him, and now they were broken, ripped apart, and _for what?_ Tom Riddle's accursed curiosity?

He wrenched himself free of the Tom's grasp and leaped to his feet, backing away from the Slytherin like a frightened animal. 

For a minute, they just stared at each other. The half-blood must have seen something in Hadrian's eyes then, something desperate that made him realise that what he had done was serious, because suddenly he was rushing forward, hands raised in a placating gesture.

“Hadrian, I didn't mean to do that.” he said, and Hadrian just sneered, backing further away.

“Then what, pray tell, _did_ you intend to do?” his voice was hard, frigid, and Tom halted in his approach at the sound of it.

“I just wanted to feel it, to understand. I've never seen a glamour like that before, one that can contain magic. I just wanted to know how it functioned.” the earnest expression on his face did nothing to quell Hadrian's ire.

“Then you could have asked!” Hadrian's insides felt cold. The absence of the runic magic made him feel like a stranger in his own body. He clutched at the nape of his neck. It felt warm and viscous, and when he pulled a hand away, his fingers were stained with blood. Rage welled up inside him like a great wave. “Do you have any idea what you've done, Riddle?” 

The half-blood flinched at the sound of his surname, but Hadrian was too far gone to feel even the slightest bit vindicated. He didn't want revenge.

“I apologise.” said Tom, but he didn't want apologies.

He didn't want mind games. 

“Just...go.” he said, resigned. 

“Hadrian, I can fix it—”

“No, Riddle, you can't. Besides me, the only person that could fix it is the woman who cast it, and she's dead.” his voice sounded wooden to his own ears, and he could see Tom's Adam's apple bob as he swallowed.

“Please—”

“No.”

The half-blood stalked forward until he stood mere inches away from Hadrian, but the vampire refused to back down. Tom reached out, hesitantly taking hold of Hadrian's shoulder. He stiffened at the contact.

“Just let me try.”

“I said no. Please leave. I need privacy to reconstruct the glamour.” Tom's hand left his shoulder, coming up to brush a stray lock of hair out of Hadrian's angry, tired eyes. He didn't know why he was allowing this. He shouldn't have felt safe so close to the man who had, just moments ago, done likely irreparable damage to his glamour. He shouldn't have wanted to lean into Tom's touch.

“Let me help you, Hadrian.” the half-blood said, and maybe it was Tom's hand still resting on his cheek, or the Dark magic caressing Hadrian's own, comforting, or perhaps it was the air around him, redolent with the scent of soft musk and Autumn rains, but Hadrian found his shoulders sagging as he sighed, nodding his defeated acquiescence.

“If you somehow manage to do more damage, Tom, I swear to Merlin I will _castrate_ you.” Tom took the empty threat for what it was, laying a hand (which Hadrian almost immediately shrugged off) on the vampire's arm and guiding him back toward the fire, bypassing the two chairs and moving to stand on the Turkish carpet which adorned the floor.

The half-blood sat, cross-legged upon the thick wool pile, and pulled Hadrian down with him. The vampire mirrored his position a couple of feet away, crossing his legs and facing Tom.

“I think I'll need to touch your, um, rune, if you don't mind.” Tom sounded uncertain, something which might have ordinarily amused Hadrian, but now only served to make him nervous.

“Do you have _any_ idea what you're doing?” he asked, and Tom raised an eyebrow.

“Do _you_?”

Hadrian didn't reply, because _no, he didn't_ , and he supposed that it didn't really matter anyway. It wasn't as though there was much more damage to be done.

“Fine,” he bit out, “Go ahead.” 

Tom moved closer, so that their knees were touching, and raised his hand to hold Hadrian's neck. The vampire winced at the feel of pressure on the rune, which still seemed to be bleeding freely, but the pain soon dissipated as Tom did something (clever and annoyingly thoughtful) with his magic.

When he felt Tom's magic reach out, searching for the torn pieces of spellwork, he couldn't help but stiffen. What was he _doing_ , letting Tom this close to him at a time like this? He had half a mind to pull away, to Fade somewhere discreet and attempt to figure this out in solitude, but Tom, as if sensing his indecision, reached up with his other hand to cup Hadrian's cheek.

“I'll be gentle,” Tom said softly, pulling Hadrian closer, “I promise.” 

Sweet words and sweet touches. Hadrian relaxed forward so that his forehead rested against Tom's, but remained wary, alert. He would go along with the half-blood's wishes, but he refused to be entirely compliant, no matter how tired he was. It was Tom's fault he was in this predicament, after all.

Which predicament he was referring to, he didn't care to specify. There were certainly enough to choose from.

Eventually, though, as the night wore on and Tom's magic danced around him, as the fire burned down and the light grew dim, Hadrian felt himself growing drowsy. Tom's spellwork was quiet, but Hadrian imagined he could hear the faint buzz of magic working, the sound lost amidst Tom's murmuring. Words in dead languages sounded like sweet nothings, and Hadrian's eyes fell slowly closed.

The carpet was soft beneath him, and warm breath ghosted over his lips as Tom continued his work, and at some point, though he couldn't say which, Hadrian drifted asleep.

.

.

.

.

It was far past midnight when Tom was able to coax the last threads of wards together, and later still when the glamour finally felt strong, as though it had never been torn apart.

Guilt wasn't an emotion the half-blood was familiar with, for the only emotions he thought worth entertaining were anger and satisfaction, and so for the first few hours while he had sat deep in thought, carefully reconstructing the elaborate wards, he had been puzzled by the heavy, uncomfortable feeling deep within his chest.

He hadn't realised that guilt, in all its uselessness, tasted so like fear. Fear of what, he couldn't say, but perhaps that was why he had insisted Hadrian stay and let Tom fix the rune. For some unfathomable reason, he couldn't bear the thought of the vampire disappearing (as he was wont to do), leaving Tom behind to stew in the foreign heaviness that had seemed fixed within him. No, Tom had needed to fix the rune, to fix whatever he'd destroyed between himself and Hadrian.

The weight was lighter, now, as he watched the vampire sleep.

In sleep, the vampire looked years younger. He could have been a child, with his face relaxed and eyes closed, but Tom knew that Hadrian hadn't been a child in a long time. He knew little regarding last Peverell's childhood, although his knowledge was likely more than anyone else's, but that didn't matter. Hadrian's virescent eyes were cold; jaded. They were the eyes of someone who had seen too much. The sort of eyes that stared back at Tom from the twin face of his reflection. 

It was said that the eyes are the windows to the soul, and it was true. The half-blood wondered what it said about him that sometimes, his eyes were red and slitted.

He was pulled out of his musings by a change in the pressure against his thigh.

When Hadrian had fallen asleep, Tom had been too shocked to do much of anything, for a moment. The moment had passed quickly, of course, and rather than waking the obviously exhausted vampire, Tom had simply rearranged their positions so that Hadrian lay on his back, head resting in Tom's lap. It had been more convenient to work like that anyway.

The heir of Slytherin stared down at the sleeping wizard in his lap. He stirred, every so often, but was for the most part still in his sleep. Tom brushed his fingers across the pale skin of Hadrian's cheekbone, and smoothed the unruly black hair from the vampire's face. In the dim firelight, Hadrian's features were softened. His sharp cheekbones didn't look as though they could cut through his skin, and his eyebrows, which were so often drawn together, were relaxed. 

He looked so innocent.

Tom knew that it was ridiculous. He knew that Hadrian had killed, likely more than he himself (although Tom liked to think that surely, the murders he had committed must be far more important than any of Hadrian's), but there was still something undeniably _pure_ about the vampire. 

Tom wanted to taint him.

Tom wanted to protect him.

Abruptly, he felt the vampire stir against his leg. He seemed to be waking up; bleary green eyes blinked open. 

“Where...?” Hadrian's voice was hoarse with sleep, and made something unspeakable stir deep within Tom's gut.

“You fell asleep.” he supplied. Hadrian, who appeared to be coming to his senses, rose to his feet. He appeared as unsteady as Tom felt, when he too stood up. Hours of sitting would do that to a person.

“Did it work?” the Peverell asked, and Tom shrugged, concealing his nerves.

“Try it,” he suggested. It _should_ work; Tom had discreetly tested it while the vampire slept, and had been able to tuck Hadrian's magic easily behind the warded web. Of course, he wasn't about to tell Hadrian that. He didn't want him to know that the half-blood had engineered the rune so that he too could access it.

The vampire pressed his hand to the back of his neck in what Tom now recognised as a familiar gesture, and suddenly, Tom's magic was alone in the Room of Requirement.

“Good job,” said Hadrian, and Tom responded with a smug smile. “I wasn't sure you would be able to do it.”

Tom scoffed. “Of course I could do it. As if there was ever any doubt.” He refused to admit that there had, in fact, been a great deal of doubt.

Hadrian gave a tired smile, but turned toward the exit. “Do you have any more questions?”

_Yes,_ he thought. “No, not at the moment.” He just didn't want to spend any more time with the vampire. He needed to think through the events of the past few hours.

The Peverell looked surprised, but that was to be expected. Tom always had questions. 

“Alright,” he said, looking over his shoulder at Tom, “Can I assume that word of my additional identity won't be circulating?”

Tom smirked. “Of course, Hadrian. I trust you'll make all this secret-keeping worth my while.” 

He could see the vampire's jaw clench. “I suppose I'll see you around, then. I'm off to bed.”

“Is that an invitation?”

Hadrian only chuckled, raising a hand to the rune to activate his glamour. 

“Goodnight, Tom,” he said as he slipped out the door.


	16. Obedience

**Obedience**

**  
**..

..

..

..

“ _Be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and others have greatness thrust upon them.”_ ~William Shakespeare, _Twelfth Night_

_.._

_.._

_.._

_.._

 

The Slytherin Dungeons were cold, and Tom shivered as he emerged from the bathroom. His hair was still wet from the shower; water ran in rivulets down his back, only to be absorbed by the white towel wrapped snugly about his hips.

He crossed the dormitory hurriedly, the stone cold against his bare feet as he came to stand at the foot of his bed. The room was silent save in the early morning, and Tom was the first to rise. With deft, practiced motions, Tom unlocked his trunk and undid its wards, withdrawing his school robes from within its confines. His trousers were cool against his already chilled skin as he pulled them on, and his shirt felt too thin for the weather. Tom clasped a heavy cloak over his robes. Not for the first time, the half-blood wished that the Slytherin quarters had fireplaces within the individual dormitories.

Tom ran a comb through his hair before casting a drying charm. His dark hair was obedient, and didn't warrant much fussing, unlike a the black, unruly tresses on a certain wizard Tom knew.

The half-blood looked in the direction of Hadrian's four-poster. After so many years of thinking of it as Pearce's (when he thought of it at all, which wasn't often), it was odd to think of the bed as belonging to Hadrian Peverell.

Tom walked over to the bed, where the hangings were drawn, and reached out with his magic. He could feel only the barest hints of wards, but wasn't fooled. He was sure that Hadrian must have had more protection than it appeared. He cast a low-level transparency charm in the direction of the curtains, and it bounced off. Tom gave a smile that, from anyone else, would have been fond. Of course Hadrian's wards would be misleading.

The curtains moved slightly, and he heard a telltale rustling from within the four-poster. Tom turned his attention back to his trunk, extracting his shoes and trying to look inconspicuous.

“Good morning,” Hadrian's voice was barely above a whisper, and Tom turned to look at the vampire, as if he were surprised by his waking.

Hadrian was perched on the edge of his bed, hair mussed from sleep and verdant eyes bleary, and Tom couldn't help but let his eyes wander down the vampire's bare chest and arms.

“Aren't you cold?” he asked, and Hadrian smirked.

“Heating charm, Tom. Isn't magic wonderful?”

Tom scowled, but willed the air warmer around him. Why hadn't he thought of that?

“So, did you figure out how to see through my curtains?” the vampire asked, and Tom's breath hitched in his throat. “I have a lovely little charm that makes them transparent from my side, you see. Not that I'll be sharing it with you.”

Tom met Hadrian's eyes with a glare. “I was merely curious about the effects of your wards.”

“Of course you were,” said Hadrian. The vampire proceeded to stand up and stretch, giving Tom a pointed look when the half-blood's eyes drifted across his exposed skin. “Why else would you attempt to watch me in my sleep?”

Tom sniffed in irritation, but didn't deign to respond to the comment.

“Isn't it dangerous to be without your glamour?” he asked instead.

“I would still be secluded behind my curtains, were I not speaking with you. No one else is awake to see me.” Hadrian said “But if you find my true appearance too distracting, my all means I could raise my glamour.” the vampire raised a hand to his nape.

“Do as you wish,” said Tom, turning away.

Distracting indeed.

Hadrian did raise his glamour, though, as Tom looked on in fascination. He'd seen him do it on several occasions now, and Tom was still fascinated by the way the tall, lithe, undeniably striking wizard transformed into such a weak, snivelling thing. Julian Pearce was nothing to look at, except perhaps in disdain.

“I was thinking,” said Hadrian, and his voice came out in a grating, adenoidal voice. Tom cringed. “Now that I don't have to act like such an utterly useless imbecile around you, perhaps the two of us could simply finish that Charms project before the deadline.”

Tom gestured for him to continue. In the midst of everything, he had forgotten the project.

“You've done most of the theoretical work already, so what we need to do now is to siphon our magic into whatever object we choose as the receptacle. Between the two of us, we should be able to produce a quite large store of it in one or two sessions. We could do that next week, at the full moon, so that we don't have to worry about the project during the remainder of the year.”

Tom nodded. “I approve of that plan of action. It would only be logical.”

Hadrian rolled his eyes.

“Of course, Tom. Whatever's logical.”

..

..

..

..

As Head Girl, Minerva McGonagall took her responsibilities quite seriously. During her years at Hogwarts, she had seen the power that came with positions like hers abused; too many Prefects were partial toward their own House, and while Minerva certainly understood the feeling of House pride that motivated biased actions (she _was_ a Gryffindor, after all), the she sheer abuse of power she witnessed almost daily was enough to make her sick. There was a place for House rivalry, and classrooms and hallways was not it. Minerva wanted to win the House cup as much as the next Gryffindor, especially in her last year at Hogwarts, but the way to do that was by answering questions correctly in classes, by playing her best out on the Quidditch pitch. Never by taking needless points from Slytherins when she saw them roaming the halls.

And so, one night in mid November, when she was returning from her rounds and came across one of her own Gryffindor Prefects bullying a Slytherin, she was understandably furious.

It was late, well past curfew, and Minerva had just finished climbing the stairs to the seventh floor. She was close to the common room, within sight of the Fat Lady's portrait, when she heard the telltale sounds of a scuffle. Continuing on down the corridor, she came to a recess in the stone wall wherein a small Slytherin boy was being held at wandpoint by none other than Fabian Prewett, sixth-year Gryffindor Prefect. The Prewett brothers were notorious trouble-makers, and Minerva still wondered how Fabian had managed to become a Prefect. Instances like this were all too common an occurrence, in Minerva's opinion.

Prewett didn't seem to have noticed her approach, as he was facing away from her, but Minerva's eyes locked with those of the Slytherin who was being harassed. They were an unattractive mildew colour, and yet still managed to hold a spark of defiance.

In Minerva's years at Hogwarts, she had come to recognise the fact that there was more than one kind of bravery, and Slytherins tended to have a special sort of courage. It was a quiet, defiant valour, but courage nonetheless.

“What's going on here, Mr. Prewett?” she asked, and the Prefect jumped at the sound of her voice, turning his wand on her. She raised an eyebrow at the gesture, and Fabian was quick to lower his weapon. The flush of he cheeks clashed with the red of his hair.

“Oh, it's just you, Minerva,” he said, and the Head Girl wondered how many times she would have to reprimand him before he realised that she wasn't on his side merely because he was a Gryffindor.

“Yes, Mr. Prewett, it is 'just me,' and I would like to know what gives you permission to harass another student in the hallways.”

The boy's blue eyes widened. “I was just doing my rounds when I came across _him_ ,” Minerva watched the Slytherin boy flinch at the acid in Fabian's tone. “The Slytherin was _lurking_ around by our common room.”

Minerva eyed the boy speculatively, but tried to keep from being too stern. The poor thing was probably frightened out of his wits. “Is this true?” she asked.

“N–No, it's not!” the boy looked almost painfully indignant. “I was just on my way back down to the Dungeons when this– this– _hooligan_ accosted me!”

Minerva couldn't suppress a small snort. ' _Hooligan_ ' indeed. Fabian was opening his mouth to speak, no doubt with every intention of defending his Gryffindor honour, but Minerva interrupted him.

“You _are_ aware that it is after curfew, are you not?” she asked in her best stern voice, watching the Slytherin for any sign of deceit.

“Yes, Miss McGonagall. I _am_ dreadfully sorry, but I wasn't aware that breaking curfew was punishable by threat of Bat-Bogey hex. I suppose things must work differently here near Gryffindor tower.”

Minerva's brows drew together in anger as she turned on Prewett. “You threatened to _hex_ him?”

Fabian gawked, his mouth opening and closing. “He's a _Slytherin!_ ”

Minerva saw red. “And _you_ are a disgrace to our House! Twenty points from Gryffindor!” Fabian's face was flushing, though whether it was in embarrassment or anger Minerva neither knew nor cared. “Back to the common room immediately, Prewett. Get some sleep. We'll be speaking with Professor Dumbledore in the morning.”

The Prefect fumed as he stalked away, and Minerva looked on disapprovingly as he knocked his shoulder into the Slytherin boy's, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “Queer,” as the boy stumbled.

“Ten points from Gryffindor, Prewett!” she called after him.

“Come on, that's thirty points! It's not like it isn't true!” Minerva very nearly snarled. She didn't _care_ if it was true or not. Pearce's personal life was neither of their business.

“Common room, Prewett, before I take more points.”

He left in a huff.

When she had heard the predictable whining of the Fat Lady, and the subsequent slamming of the door (“At this hour, I swear! I should be getting paid for this!”), Minerva turned her attention to the Slytherin, who was looking at her with wide eyes.

He wasn't the first.

“Don't think that you're excused, Mister....” she trailed off when she realised that she didn't know his name. Minerva was appalled at herself; she made it a point to know all of the students within the walls of Hogwarts.

“Pearce. Julian Pearce.” Minerva's eyes widened involuntarily. He was the one that had been missing for _days_ in the beginning of the month! His absence had caused quite a stir, and when he had suddenly reappeared, the school had been in a state of relief. 'Lost in the Dungeons.' _Right_. Minerva had thought the whole incident rather suspicious, and it made her look at the small Slytherin in a new light.

By his looks, Minerva would have guessed that the boy was a fourth or fifth year. He was short and skinny, his hair scruffy and uncombed. He didn't look like the seventh-year pureblood she knew he was. In Slytherin House especially, purebloods took care with their appearances. There was something odd about this one.

“What were you doing on the seventh floor after curfew, Mister Pearce? It's quite a long way from the Dungeons.”

The boy looked uncomfortable under the weight of her gaze. “I was looking for my Divination textbook. It's gone missing, and I thought that maybe I'd left it near the North Tower.”

Minerva didn't believe him, but she didn't want to obviously press him for information. Slytherins would close up like a charmed book in the Restricted Section the moment they thought they were being interrogated.

And yet, Minerva had a niggling suspicion about Pearce's whereabouts. They alcove where they stood was far closer to the portrait of _Barnabas the Barmy_ than it was to the North tower.

“Ah, yes,” she said, meeting the boy's eyes, “The seventh floor is indeed a place of many _Hidden Things._ ” Pearce's eyes widened slightly. _Aha,_ thought Minerva, _so he_ does _know of the Room of Requirement._

The Head Girl had found the room quite by accident the very same day she had dropped out of Divination, in her third year. Divination, in Minerva's opinion, was nothing more than rubbish, and she (in one of her more rebellious moments) had told Professor Vablatsky just that. She hadn't taken it well, and Minerva had been promptly booted out of the class.

She had been pacing in the corridor, wishing that she had somewhere to dispose of her useless Divination textbook, when suddenly, a door had appeared. Ever curious (the Hat had almost placed her in Ravenclaw, after all), Minerva hadn't hesitated to open the door.

The Room of Hidden Things, as it was sometimes referred to, was breathtaking, in a jumbled, astoundingly disorderly sort of way, and had been the perfect place to dispose of her loathed textbook. Evidently, it had been the perfect place to dispose of quite a few other things, too, many of which seemed quite suspect. Minerva knew that she should have reported the room to a teacher, because students could obviously put it to use for unsavoury purposes, but she hadn't.

The Room was one of the many secrets that made Hogwarts special. Minerva thought that it had likely been part of Hogwarts since the school's inception, and the chamber had clearly been a sanctuary for many a (rule breaking) student in need. Far be it from Minerva to take that away, even if it did assist the trouble-makers.

But the fact that Julian Pearce, the seemingly unexceptionable Slytherin who had disappeared (and later, reappeared) under suspicious circumstances, knew of the Room was...dubious.

“Ten points from Slytherin for lurking near the Gryffindor common room.” she said, the last part in jest, and the boy raised his eyebrows.

“I thought we had established that I wasn't _lurking_.”

“ _Whatever_ you were doing,” she gave him a significant look, “It was after curfew, and I think that it's time you returned to your _own_ common room. I'll escort you, just to make sure you don't run into any more trouble.”

He gave her an offended glare. “I don't need your help, you know.”

“Don't you?” she looked pointedly in the direction Fabian had run off. Pearce bristled, and Minerva half expected him to retort with some rude remark about her blood status.

Needless to say, she was quite pleasantly surprised when the next words from the pureblood's mouth were “I don't have bats coming out of my nose, do I?”

Minerva snorted. “No, I don't suppose you do. But we had best get going, regardless. I, for one, would like to get some sleep tonight.”

“You're really going to walk with me all the way to the Slytherin common room?” the look he gave her was skeptical.

“Wouldn't want you to get _lost in the Dungeons,_ ” she deadpanned, and although she could have imagined it, Minerva swore she saw his eye twitch.

“Fine then, let's go.”

The Head Girl had to jog to catch up to the boy when he turned and began quickly walking in the direction of the stairs. He kept up the quick pace for several floors, and by the time they reached the second floor, Minerva was breathing somewhat heavily. Glancing at her silent companion, she wondered how it was that he wasn't exhausted when she, a Gryffindor Chaser, was out of breath.

She watched him covertly as they walked, noting how his feet almost shuffled, but he still managed to walk quickly. He had a tendency to hunch in on himself, like he was protecting himself from something, and Minerva recognised it as a sign of low self esteem. It was logical, she supposed. He didn't seem like the type that would be very popular in Slytherin.

When they reached the first floor, Pearce broke their silence with a question.

“Why do you do it?” his quiet voice sounded loud in the silence of the night.

“Do what?” she asked, although she was fairly sure that she knew.

“Defend Slytherins,” they slowed their pace, and Pearce turned to face her expectantly.

Minerva sighed, wondering how best to explain it. She'd tried before, but people often laughed at her. She didn't mind the mockery much, but it was always a bit disheartening. She wondered if perhaps Pearce would take her answer differently.

“I've always hated prejudice,” she began, and searched for the right words to explicate what she meant. “My father's a Muggle,” she glanced at Pearce, but he showed no outward reaction to the news. “He didn't find out that my mother was a witch until I was born. She would have probably hidden it then too, were it not for my accidental magic. It was too much to be concealed, and started almost immediately after I was born.” Minerva sighed. She'd always felt somewhat responsible for the problems her parents had with each other. “He...took it well, I suppose. I mean, they're still together and everything, and I even have two younger brothers now, but he doesn't like magic. It scares him, and so my brothers and I always had to try to refrain from doing anything magical around him.

“I'd hoped that when I came to Hogwarts, it would be better; I wouldn't have to hide my magic, and would be surrounded by others of my kind, but there is always some sort of prejudice. At home, I'm too magical; here, I'm not magical enough...” she trailed off. “Have you ever played Quidditch, Mr. Pearce?”

He shook his head.

“Well, I'm a Gryffindor team Chaser,” she said, “I would be captain, if I were a boy.”

Pearce nodded. “I've seen you fly,” he said, “You're the best Chaser in Hogwarts.”

Minerva very nearly gaped. _Gryffindors_ scarcely complimented her on her flying. _Slytherins_...Well, it was safe to say that Pearce was an anomaly.

“I...Thank you,” she said, and she meant it. “I just–I can't stand that people judge others based on things so inconsequential as House rivalries. The other Houses hate Slytherins because they think that you're all Dark wizards, but that doesn't give them any right to harass you in public.”

They had stopped walking at some point, and were now standing close to the entrance to the Dungeons. Pearce was looking at her curiously.

“Quite a few of us _are_ Dark wizards, you know.” he said, and Minerva's breath caught in her throat. That wasn't exactly polite conversation.

“Then they should be careful who they harass,” she quipped, trying to end the conversation gracefully, and Pearce chuckled. The sound echoed eerily off of the cold stone walls.

“But Miss McGonagall, don't you think that Dark wizards _deserve_ to be punished?” the Head Girl nearly choked. She wasn't sure she liked the direction this was going. _Please,_ she thought, _Don't let Pearce admit to being a Dark wizard. If he does, I'll have to report him._

“I'm afraid that I'm not informed enough to have an opinion on the subject,” she said carefully. “Besides, it hardly matters what I think. Dark magic is illegal.”

The Slytherin began walking again, and Minerva followed him, thankful for his silence. Alas, the reprieve didn't last for long.

“That's an interesting perspective for a Light witch to have,” he said as they descended into the Dungeons. Minerva wondered if he was insinuating something she didn't grasp.

“I don't have a perspective.” she riposted.

They came to a halt some ways before the wall which Minerva knew (courtesy of her Head Girl status) was the entrance to the Slytherin common room. The small Slytherin turned to before turning to leave.

“That's what makes it interesting,” he called over his shoulder as he walked toward the wall. He murmured the password, and the wall melted away to reveal the door to the common room. “Thank you for accompanying me, McGonagall. Your commitment to your post is laudable.”

Pearce turned to go, but Minerva felt compelled to stop him. _What if he thought she was a Dark witch?_

“Wait!” she called, and Pearce turned to face her.

“Yes?”

“I don't condone the use of Dark magic; I think that the Dark Lord is _terrible_.” she lifted her chin haughtily, “He's a monster, and I would _never_ support a man like that.” she sniffed.

To her surprise, Pearce's face twisted into a genuine-looking smile. “I should hope not, Miss McGonagall. I would be dreadfully disappointed in you if you would.”

The Slytherin grasped the knob on the door and pulled it open; greenish light spilled out into the dark corridor.

“Goodnight,” he called, and then, so softly Minerva almost didn't hear it, “Hogwarts is lucky to have you as Head Girl, Minerva McGonagall. Ten points to Gryffindor.”

~.~

The next morning, Minerva trudged down to the Great Hall twenty minutes late with bags under her eyes, her hair pulled up in a slightly messier version of her usual tight bun. The heavy oaken doors were already open, since this was the time when most students were arriving for breakfast, and the Gryffindor table was crowded with rowdy children. The Head Girl made her way to the end of the table, as far away from the noise as she could get, and began to fill her plate.

She hadn't been seated more than a minute when Fabian Prewett, the last person she wanted to see, sat down directly across from her.

“So were you kidding, last night?” he said, and some of the Gryffindors nearest them looked up in interest. Minerva quelled them with a glare.

“About what?” she asked, looking up from the tantalising bacon on her plate to stare at Fabian's garish, orange hair.

“Those last ten points you took from Gryffindor,” he said, and the Head Girl raised an eyebrow.

“What about them? Should I have taken more?”

“No! No, it's just that we had two-hundred and seventy points yesterday at dinner, and I thought that you took thirty points, but we still have two-fifty. Did you decide that I was right? I mean, it wasn't really worth it over a _Slytherin_ , was it? Dark wankers, the lot of 'em.”

Minerva looked in the direction of the faculty table, where the large hourglasses stood against the wall. Indeed, the Gryffindor glass looked too full. But that was impossible! She _had_ taken thirty points. Unless...

“Hey, what are you _doing_?” said Fabian as Minerva moved to stand up, climbing atop the long wooden bench to get a better vantage point of the Great Hall. She scanned the Slytherin table, searching for the small form that was Julian Pearce, and eventually finding him seated alone at the end of the table, facing her.

He nodded cordially in her direction. Minerva looked from Pearce to the hourglasses and back again. Pearce grinned. Minerva gaped.

He _couldn't_ have!

It was about then that the mail arrived in a flurry of feathers; letter-laden owls swooped in through the windows. Minerva flopped back onto the bench, ducking to avoid decapitation by overeager delivery bird. She was just returning to her meal, periodically shooting suspicious glances in the direction of the Slytherin table, when she was disrupted once again by the redhead sitting across from her.

“Ahem,” Prewett cleared his throat conspicuously.

Minerva ignored him, pouring herself a cup of Earl Grey.

“Minerva,” he said, and the Head Girl gave an exaggerated sigh.

“What is it, Fabian?” she stirred a spoonful of sugar into her tea, and lifted the cup to take a sip.

The liquid was amber against the porcelain, and only a few shades lighter than the varnish on the table.

“You have mail,” he said, and Minerva looked up her from her tea. A black owl, dark as night and just as silent, was indeed perched directly before her.

The owl stared as if scrutinising, its golden eyes unblinking. Minerva lowered her gaze to the parcel the bird was sitting atop. Judging by its boxy shape and sharp corners, it appeared to be a book. Ordinarily, Minerva would hardly have blinked at receiving such a package, for her mother was known to send her books on occasion, but the owl was unfamiliar. The witch sat straighter in her seat, wondering how best to go about retrieving the parcel. She didn't want to inadvertently anger an owl she didn't know. Perhaps it bit.

Her worrying was for nothing, it appeared, for the bird hopped from its perch atop the package and proceeded to snatch a piece of toast from Minerva's plate.

“Good gracious!” she exclaimed to herself as the bird flapped its way away from the Gryffindor table, swooping outside through an open window.

Minerva turned her attention back to the package, dubious. It was wrapped in nondescript brown paper and tied with a crimson ribbon. Now that the owl had departed, Minerva could see her name written in a tidy scrawl across the paper. Pushing aside her unfinished breakfast and setting her tea beside it, she reached forward and took hold of the package. It was heavy –definitely a book, then– and the head girl had to use both hands in order to drag it into the newly cleared space before her.

She could feel the weight of eyes on her, and looked up from the wrapped book to glare sternly at Fabian, who had the nerve to look away as though he hadn't been watching her.

“Don't you have somewhere to be?” she said, hoping to God that the boy would take the hint.

“Who, me?” Minerva raised an eyebrow at his gall. “Lessons don't start for nearly twenty minutes!”

“Then I would assume you'd be going now, Mr. Prewett. It's always good to get to class early, especially with Professor Dumbledore.”

Fabian slumped in his seat, pouting exaggeratedly, before climbing to his feet. “Fine, I'm going! No need to get your knickers in a twist, woman!”

Minerva scowled, but didn't say anything, glad to be rid of him.

She tugged at the ends of the scarlet ribbon, and it unraveled in her fingers. She looked again at the writing on the box, but it didn't seem familiar. It looked vaguely masculine, slanted with and narrow, but Minerva knew that it was hardly an indication of the sender's identity. Perhaps there was a letter inside.

With that thought, Minerva set about unwrapping the parcel. The paper was easy enough to unfold once she had removed the ribbon, and in very little time the book was sitting before her, free from any packaging.

Later, Minerva would note the high quality of the tome's binding, its gold embossed title and the leather that, though obviously old, was in near perfect condition. Later, she would wonder why she hadn't simply handed it in to Professor Dumbledore and been done with it. Later, she would look back on this morning, on her cooling Earl Grey and unfinished breakfast, and realise that that was the moment when everything had changed irrevocably.

Now, though, the witch just stared at the book's title in dawning horror. She knew that she couldn't let herself be seen with it, that being seen with it could get her expelled. _No_ , she thought, _being seen with it could get me sent to Azkaban._

Minerva clutched the book to her chest and stood in a hurry. She slung her book bag over her shoulder glanced around the Hall, making sure that no one was paying her any attention.

When her gaze came to rest on the Slytherin table, Minerva met Julian Pearce's eyes with a growing sense of dread. His smile from earlier was gone, and his serious, almost threatening look gave Minerva chills. She clutched the book more tightly, her fingernails digging into the leather cover, and swallowed drily.

She turned away, closing her eyes tightly, and attempted to collect herself.

The sound of her footsteps was lost as she very nearly ran from the Great Hall, and Minerva kept her eyes turned toward the floor. She didn't want some Legilimens (namely her head of house) to see her thoughts. Unfortunately, this meant that she wasn't looking where she was going, and a fact Minerva overlooked until she ran into a wall.

Or rather, until she ran into Tom Riddle.

Minerva held her ground, but not his gaze. She didn't trust him to stay out of her thoughts.

“Good morning, Riddle.” she said. His Head Boy badge glinted gold against his robes, a mirror of Minerva's own Head Girl one.

“Good morning, McGonagall,” his eyes lowered from hers to the book in her hands, and Minerva's heart hammered within her breast. “Is that a new book?”

The Head Girl smiled tightly, and hoped that it didn't look forced. “Just something my mother sent me. Supplementary reading on the Goblin Rebellion, you know. Binns tends to get rather redundant in his lessons.” she wanted to cringe at how easily the lie rolled off her tongue, but instead just excused herself before Riddle could ask any more questions. He was the last person she wanted to know of the book she was holding.

“I'll just be going now,” she said. “Wouldn't want to be late to Transfiguration!”

As she sidestepped the tall Slytherin, the book burned in her hands. She hurried from the Great Hall, looking over her shoulder as she reached the large oaken doors. Pearce was still watching her as she turned away, _A Light Wizard's Guide to Dark Magic_ clasped tightly against her chest.

..

..

..

..

“I take it you are responsible for the nervous breakdown our favourite Head Girl nearly suffered during breakfast this morning.” remarked Tom as he closed the door behind him. They were in the Roof of Requirement; Hadrian, devoid of his glamour, was sprawled across the floor before the fire, working on an essay for Transfiguration.

“Of course,” said the vampire, “I sent her some reading material that isn't exactly on the average Light wizard's recommended reading list.”

Tom raised an eyebrow. The witch hadn't met his eyes, and so he didn't know what book it was. Judging by McGonagall's wide-eyed, flustered look, it had been something generally taboo. “Should I be concerned?”

“Probably,” said Hadrian, grinning. “I sent her _A Light Wizard's Guide to Dark Magic._ ”

Tom waited for the punchline, but none came. “You're not serious.” he said, and, when Hadrian simply grinned wider, “ _Please_ , tell me that you're not serious. She's the _poster-child_ for the Light. She'll report you!”

Tom stalked toward where Hadrian was lying on the floor. The vampire rolled over and put his hands behind his head, crossing his ankles and smiling up at Tom. “She won't.”

Tom ran an exasperated hand through his hair. “What aren't you telling me?” he asked. Hadrian wasn't stupid, but sending a book on Dark magic to a Light witch? Something had to give. “You don't think that you could turn her to the Dark, do you?”

The vampire frowned thoughtfully as Tom came to stand beside his sprawled figure. “No; she's definitely a Light witch. She's unusual, though. Open-minded. I think that perhaps, if she realises how corrupt the Light is, she would sympathise with us.”

Tom looked at his friend incredulously. “You're _insane_.”

Hadrian shrugged. “Perhaps,” he said, “But she could be an invaluable ally.”

Tom shook his head, skeptical, and sat down on the carpet beside the vampire. He still couldn't believe that Hadrian had sent her a book on Dark magic.

“Do you get off on sending people shocking books or something?” Tom asked, remembering vividly the book on Horcruxes that had arrived during breakfast not long ago.

Hadrian chuckled, the sound dark and melodious. “At least I'm not a sadist. Torturing your followers, Tom? Is it really necessary?”

The half-blood drew himself up defensively. “Of course it's necessary. They need to know their place.”

Hadrian sighed, and Tom's gaze was drawn to his lips. “That's not the way to inspire loyalty, Tom. Fear does not beget loyalty; only love does that, and if you want them to love you, you should really abstain from the Cruciatus.”

Tom shook his head. “They could fight back, if they wanted to.”

Hadrian rolled onto his side, propping his head up on his elbow. The vampire raised an eyebrow. “You would beat them in a minute. They wouldn't stand a fighting chance.”

Tom smirked. “Of course they wouldn't. No one would.”

Hadrian gave him an unimpressed look. “Would you be willing to bet on that?”

Tom felt a thrill of excitement. Was this going where he thought it was? “Of course.”

The vampire hummed quietly. “A duel is in order, I think. Loser owes the winner a favour.”

“Any favour?” Tom's eyes went wide. That was invaluable.

“Any favour.”

“Not to the death, then, I presume.”

“To incapacitation.”

“Very well,” said the heir of Slytherin, standing. “Shall we?” he offered Hadrian a hand, and the vampire took it. Tom pulled him to his feet.

The Room transformed into a duelling chamber, complete with the circular platform that was popular among Dark magic users.

“Let's.”

~.~

Duelling Hadrian wasn't like duelling anyone else, Tom realised. Most people, while skilled in theory and spellwork, lacked practical experience. It became apparent very quickly that such was not true of Hadrian. Tom had known this, of course, but he hadn't realised it as fully as he should have.

Spells flew like daggers through the air, and the Room was alight with flashes of green and gold as Tom fought for his pride against the wizard that someday, he would have to stop underestimating. They had been duelling for approximately an hour, based on Tom's estimations, when they came to an impasse, wands at each other's throats.

“I won't judge you, if you wish to surrender.” said Hadrian, breathless. Tom smirked wickedly and kicked out with his foot, knocking the vampire off of his feet.

Hadrian pulled Tom down with him, and they tumbled to the ground in a heap of struggling limbs and clashing magic. The halfblood had the advantage, having fallen on top of his opponent, and intended to utilise it to the best of his abilities.

“I won't be surrendering,” he said, lips moving sensually against the skin of Hadrian's neck as he pressed the vampire flat to the platform. “Will you?”

Tom relished the way Hadrian shuddered beneath him, but any feeling of victory was squashed as the vampire hooked a leg around one of Tom's own, grabbing the half-blood's shoulders and switching their positions in a show of vampiric strength. Tom looked up into Hadrian's face, eyes alight with excitement and cheeks flushed with exertion, and couldn't help but steal a glance in the direction of the wizard's lips. They were plump as usual, and his lower lip was red from where Hadrian had bitten it in concentration. Tom watched, mesmerised, as those lips moved to form words.

“Unlikely,”

Tom shoved the vampire off of him, leaping to his feet and firing off a violently orange Entrail-Expelling curse. Hadrian blocked it, of course.

The duel only escalated from there.

~.~

It was well into the night when it ended, with Tom teetering on the edge of the platform, wandless and kept from falling only by Hadrian's hand gripping the front of his sweat-dampened shirt.

“I concede!” he gasped, flushed and breathless. Hadrian's fingers twisted in their grip on his shirt, pulling him back onto the platform.

Tom was stunned. He looked at Hadrian, hair tousled and with blood dripping down his chest from a shoulder wound. He looked with new eyes, eyes devoid of the veil that was arrogance and pride, and he saw not the powerful but naïve wizard he had once seen. He saw, Hadrian, the first vampire of his kind, the most powerful and skilled Dark wizard he'd ever met.

He saw a victor.

“I concede,” Tom said again, and the words weren't as bitter as they should have been.

No one had ever told him that defeat tasted so like respect.

..

..

..

..

 

Thunder clapped in the night, echoing in the sky and within the confines of the large chamber. Citadel Vrykolakas had been ravaged. Several of the stained glass windows were ruptured, evidence of a struggle, and torrents of rain leaked in through the broken glass. Wind howled as it swirled through the room, but the sound was drowned out by the wails of the woman writhing on the floor. She was dressed richly in traditional vampiric robes, and Gellert's lips twisted into a sneer. The filthy creature dared to resist him.

“His name,” the wizard spat, funnelling more power into the Cruciatus. “Tell me his name.”

“I don't know it, I swear! I don't know who you're talking about!” her English was heavily accented in her pain, but Gellert didn't speak Bulgarian and so this was the easiest way. Or it would have been, if the woman had simply cooperated.

“I know that he was here, Aleksandrov! You are the leader of this colony, and you will tell me his name!” He lifted his wand, firing a blood-boiling curse at the creature. She screamed.

“Carina, forgive me!” she gasped at last.

“His name's Peverell!” she sobbed, the words almost lost amidst her crying. “Hadrian Peverell!”

Gellert released the curse, stepping back in satisfaction. “Hadrian Peverell?” he asked.

Her head gave a sporadic jerk he interpreted as being affirmative. He conjured a stake, gripping it in his fingers as he knelt beside the mutilated woman. Tears streamed town her cheeks and blood dribbled in small streams from her mouth. She must have bitten herself in her pain. Their kind were animals, after all.

“Any last words?” he asked, though he didn't care, truly. He'd gotten what he came for, but he was in a good mood. He would let the vampire speak her piece.

“He won't follow you,” the woman gurgled, “Hadrian won't follow you. You will lose. He'll kill you for what you've done to our kind, for what you've done to him.”

Grindelwald sneered. “He will be an obedient servant. I have done nothing to him, and now you have given me the information I need to find him.”

The woman sobbed once more, but still managed a vicious glare. “You've done everything to him.” she said, and in a last act of defiance, spat blood in his face.

Grindelwald stabbed the stake into her chest, and watched as her skin became ashen and her hair dull. “I am so sorry, Hadrian,” she mumbled, before her head lulled to the side and at last, the bitch perished.

Gellert stood, spelling the blood from his robes.

“Hadrian Peverell,” he tested the name on his tongue.

After seventeen years, the boy would finally be his.


	17. The Face of Deceit

**The Face of Deceit**

_.._

_.._

_.._

_.._

“ _The heart has its reasons which reason knows not.”_

~Blaise Pascal

..

..

..

..

The frigid wind which had plagued Hogwarts's grounds for the past weeks had subsided into little more than the occasional lazy zephyr, and yet in the cloudless glory of the night, Tom shivered, drawing his cloak closer about his shoulders. Vast hills blanketed with newly fallen snow reflected the full moon's sullen light, affording the night a cold, silvery glow that seemed to leak into even the seemingly impenetrable blackness that was the shadows in the Astronomy tower. Even with the moonlight, the stars were gleaming pinpricks on the canvas of the night sky, and as the constellations wheeled above him, awesome in their vastness, Tom gripped his wand.

His knuckles were pale as the yew as he erected ward after ward, some wordlessly and some muttered, weaving together a web of spellwork to rival that of Hadrian's glamour. The vampire, meanwhile, was perched in the shadow of one of the Astronomy tower's arches, no doubt seeking refuge from the cold breeze. As Tom completed the last of his warding, Hadrian stood, stepping out from his haven of shadows and into the moonlight. Tom's breath caught slightly in his throat as his eyes swept over the sharp jut of Hadrian's cheekbones, made sharper by the shine of the moon on his face, and down to linger on the full curve of the vampire's lips.

“The containing wards are in order?” asked Hadrian, and Tom wrenched his gaze away from the wizard's mouth, forcing himself to meet his project partner's eyes. It had been Hadrian who constructed the vessel for their power receptacle, a small silver ball roughly the size of a Snitch, with swirled engravings decorating its metal surface. It was small enough to slip into a pocket, yet large enough to carve the necessary runes for the ritual they had invented. 

“Check them yourself, if you're concerned about the quality,” Tom replied, lobbing the receptacle in Hadrian's direction. He caught it easily, the motion unhurried and natural, and Tom thought that had the circumstances been different, the vampire would have made a remarkable Seeker. Hadrian turned the ball in his hands, and Tom could feel the Peverell prodding at the wards with his magic.

“They'll suffice,” Tom bristled, but when he met Hadrian's verdant gaze, the vampire smiled easily, chuckling. “Not that I expected anything short of perfect from you.” 

The wind was picking up again, and Hadrian must have been caught by a particularly cold gust, because the wizard reached down to adjust his gloves, pulling the black leather tight over his knuckles. “Well then,” he said, his voice soft, “Shall we get started on the circle?”

The Astronomy tower's lack of substantial walls provided little shelter from the impending storm, but the location was suitable for their purposes; rituals were stronger when performed beneath a full moon, and so the Astronomy tower was an ideal location for the siphoning of their magic into the receptacle. Tom had no doubt that they would receive full marks on their Charms project.

Tom rummaged through the rucksack Hadrian had brought up to the tower. It was filled with the ingredients they would need for the ritual, and Tom searched for several moments before he found the pouch of salt which he sought. It was a specially made amplifying agent, one that would likely be conducive to their goals. As Tom poured the salt along the perimeter of the circle which Hadrian had been so useful as to draw out in advance, the half-blood was eerily reminded of the ritual which he used to create his Horcruxes. He shuddered in remembered pain, reminding himself of the differences: salt instead of sand, and an absence of candles.

When the circle was drawn, perfectly symmetrical and even, Tom stepped back to admire his work. The ritual they had invented was a simple one; after this, they merely needed to paint several blood runes (Tom smirked at the thought of what Professor Flitwick would think should he realise that his top student was using a Dark technique on a school project) and wait until the moon was directly overhead to perform their spells.

Tom returned the salt pouch (now empty) to the rucksack, and withdrew from its magically expanded confines a long, curved blade. The ritual knife was Hadrian's, and the blade glinted, sinister in the moonlight. Tom turned it in his hands, testing the edge against his thumb and wincing when it sliced easily into his skin. A thin like of blood appeared on the surface of his skin, and Tom could feel Hadrian's eyes snap toward him. 

“Heal it,” snarled the vampire, his voice low and commanding. Something curled deep within Tom's gut, and the half-blood swallowed drily. When he looked up, the green eyes he met were glowing. 

Tom shook himself, raised an eyebrow, and healed the cut. Out of courtesy, nothing more. It had only been two weeks since the vampire's Inheritance, after all. 

Tom turned his attention back to the athame, studying the curious blade that looked to be made of glass.

“Where did you procure such a tool, Hadrian? I haven't seen anything quite like it, even in during my stay in Knockturn Alley.” It was true, too; the blade was black, seeming to absorb the little light, and its small hilt was beset with intricate silver inlay in a language he didn't recognise. Hadrian was watching him from where he was crouching, testing the texture of the ritual salt between his long fingers.

“Oh, the athame?” The vampire's voice was slightly strained, but back almost to its usual melodious timbre. “It was a gift from an...acquaintance of mine, Ragnok. He's the Head of Gringotts Bank, and although he hasn't said as much, I gather that he is a rather prominent figure in the Goblin community. It's Goblin-made.” Were Tom a lesser man, his jaw would have dropped. 

“You're acquainted with _Goblins_?” he spat the last word, mildly disgusted. From what Tom had seen, the creatures appeared to be vile, vicious little things, if not unintelligent. He was surprised that someone of Hadrian's calibre would keep the company such beasts.

Hadrian rose from his crouching position, brushing off his trousers. He had forgone a cloak, and Tom wondered how he could be comfortable on a night so cold as this. “I associate myself quite freely with all Dark creatures, yes.” Hadrian appeared indignant, his eyes flashing. “Is there something you would like to say concerning the matter?”

Tom drew himself to his full height and lifted his chin, haughty. “Goblins appear to be little more than canny savages. I must admit I can't seem to rationalise your desire to consort with such creatures.” Hadrian tensed, all righteous anger, before stalking toward him with footsteps whose sounds were lost in the wind.

“I've heard myself referred to as no more than a savage beast, Tom. I'm sure that you can attest to the fact that this is wholly untrue, and such is the case with your inaccurate assumptions regarding the nature of Goblins, for their race is one of the most influential and under appreciated ones in our society. As such, they make invaluable allies, and I refuse to ostracise a potential associate for the sole sake of petty prejudices such as yours.”

Tom backtracked quickly, attempting to douse the spark of Hadrian's anger before it had a chance to morph into a dangerous flame. Over _Goblins_ , no less. To damage the tentative camaraderie he'd developed with Hadrian over such disgusting creatures as _Goblins_ would be a travesty. “I meant no disrespect, Hadrian. I'm sure that they are quite capable creatures, as I know vampires to be, even if they are not quite so civilised as wizards.” Immediately, Tom knew that he had said the wrong thing. Hadrian's eyes flashed with anger, and suddenly the vampire was uncomfortably close, his magic spiking in ire.

“You must watch yourself, Tom. If such are your opinions, I almost wonder if your aspirations might be to follow in the footsteps of _Grindelwald_.”

Tom flinched at the words; from Hadrian, the insult couldn't have been worse. The half-blood knew that Hadrian loathed the current Dark Lord with every fibre of his being, and so comparing Tom to him...Tom turned away, grasping the athame too tightly in his hand.

“Let's just get on with the ritual,” he ground out, lifting the blade to slice into his hand; he needed to collect blood for the runes.

But just as he raised the athame to make a small incision in the flesh of his palm, the tool was forcibly snatched from his grip.

“What are you—”

“I think that it would be best if I did this part,” said the vampire, a strange look in his eyes as he fingered the dagger. Hadrian's eyes flicked in the direction of Tom's thumb, where a faint pink line was still visible from his earlier, careless, handling of the blade. Anger still lingered in his gaze, but along with it was something different, something secret. “I'm still growing used to my Inheritance, and the bloodlust hasn't yet subsided completely. I don't wish to put you at risk; I can be quite _uncivilised_ when I'm thirsty.”

Tom sighed. “I already apologised, Hadrian.” he muttered, but watched as the vampire began the next step of the ritual. He didn't even flinch as he cut deeply into the flesh of his right palm, dark blood flowing freely from the wound. Tom held a small stone dish to the bleeding appendage, catching Hadrian's crimson lifeblood within its confines. When a decent amount of fluid had accumulated in the dish, Hadrian closed the wound with some muttered spell, and Tom set about painting the runes onto the floor immediately inside the salt circle.

The runes were simple, and so after a mere few minutes, the two stood at opposite sides of the ring and _waited_. Minutes passed in silence as they waited for the moon to reach its zenith, and at last light flowed in through the circular opening in the roof of the Astronomy tower, signalling that the time was right. 

“Let's begin,” said Hadrian stiffly, tugging off his gloves and placing them carefully into the rucksack, and Tom lifted his arms, wand in hand, to begin the enchantment.

The chant was Latin, in tandem. Hadrian had written it, of course, as he was fluent in the language, but as it was one of the few idioms that Tom had studied, he had made minor alterations to the original script. The incantation echoed eerily against Hogwarts's stone walls, and by the time it died down, the castle seemed to ring with it. 

When the night was once again silent, Tom met Hadrian's eyes and, in response to the vampire's raised eyebrow, nodded. 

The process of magic-siphoning was more tedious than time consuming, and so it was with immense heedfulness that Tom focused his magic on the tiny receptacle. He could feel Hadrian doing the same, their magic joining together within the confines of the metallic vessel, pushing and pulling in an erotic, agonizing dance. Tom fought to remain focused, to not become distracted with the sliding of Hadrian's magic against his own, but it was difficult; they had avoided most physical or magical contact since Hadrian's Inheritance, and Tom had even toned down his advances—he didn't want to frighten the vampire away so early in the game when he could be of tremendous use later. 

After so long, the taste of Hadrian's magic was overwhelming; Tom closed his eyes, basking in it, and let his magic flow freely. He knew that he couldn't keep this up for long (siphoning magic in large quantities was dangerous, and Tom had no desire to end up a Squib) and yet he couldn't help his disappointment when he felt the stream of Hadrian's magic slowing to a trickle, and then to none at all. Tom pulled his magic back to him with a gentle tug, wrapping it around him tightly to quell the tendrils attempting to make contact with the tantalizing, Dark magic so close to him.

Tom opened his eyes, his vision swimming slightly; he was out of breath with exertion—his body wasn't accustomed to expending such vast amounts of magic, after all—and could see that across the circle, Hadrian was suffering similar circumstances. The vampire's white shirt untucked, and clung to his shoulders as he inhaled and exhaled sharply, his chest rising and falling rapidly in time with his breath.

A lock of the wizard's unruly hair had fallen before his verdant eyes, and Tom felt the urge to brush it away; before Tom had so much as thought such a thought, his feet were carrying him toward the vampire, walking of their own accord until the two were standing mere inches apart. 

In such close proximity, Tom could see the minuscule, pearly beads of sweat that lingered on the vampire's brow; the flush of exertion on the vampire's usually pale cheeks; the unruly hair made more unruly yet by the wind. Hadrian's lips were full and rosy as usual, parted slightly as his breath came in shallow gasps. The vampire's eyes were hooded, pupils blown wide as he returned Tom's stare. 

Hadrian looked utterly debauched.

Someone leaned forward—Tom wasn't sure who, but it didn't matter—and then his hands were floating up to grasp Hadrian's shoulders as he was pulled close, Hadrian's breath a phantom touch on the skin of his neck. Tom turned his head to the side in an attempt to catch the vampire's eye, but Hadrian's green gaze was downcast, lingering somewhere below Tom's jaw. The half-blood felt himself shudder involuntarily, and made to pull Hadrian closer still, but the other boy pulled away from him suddenly, body one tense line. 

Tom reeled as Hadrian's gaze became something cold and stony, trying and failing to rationalise the vampire's erratic behaviour. 

“I should go,” said he, backing away. “I haven't fed in days, and after that rather exhausting ritual, I am in need of a hunt. I fear that if I don't feed soon, I might lose control and do something _savage_.”

Again with the 'savage'. Evidently, Tom's comment about the Goblins had had a more lasting, negative, impact than he had intended it to. Hadrian picked up his rucksack, shrinking it and slipping it into his pocket, and made to turn in the direction of the door. He vanished the blood and salt from the ritual. 

“Will you go to Hogsmeade, then?” Tom asked, reluctantly cowed by the vampire's jibe. He was cold where Hadrian's body had so recently been pressed against his own.

“Yes,” came the reply. Short. Curt. Standoffish, almost. Hadrian strode toward the exit, his gait rigid and measured. Tom felt an odd sort of guilt rise up in him.

He called out before he could stop himself, before he could consider the words spilling from his lips.

“Hadrian, wait!” the vampire turned to face him stiffly, his hands clenched into fists by his sides. Tom could see the vampire's tendons, standing white against his too-pale skin. “If it is so imperative, drink _my_ blood.”

In the shadows cast by the full moon, Tom could see Hadrian's measured expression slip, fall into one of genuine disbelief before the vampire could school his countenance into one of stone. Hadrian looked off-balance. Evidently, he hadn't expected Tom to say such a thing. The half-blood didn't blame him; he hadn't expected it of himself either.

“You would...You would allow me to feed from you?” the inquiry sounded unsure, timid almost. Tom took a deep breath, and let himself realise completely what he had just offered; he was rather shocked that he had said such a thing. It wasn't a favour to extend casually. He would be putting himself in a vulnerable position, one that could be dangerous and even fatal.

But Hadrian wouldn't attempt to hurt him, would he? And didn't Tom have much to gain? If he did this, perhaps Hadrian would begin to trust him without reserve. Perhaps he could prompt Hadrian to follow him, to aid him in his goals for the future. It was more than that, though— when he had offered, he hadn't been thinking about the potential benefits such an action could afford him. He didn't want to think too much on what his justification had been, if he had had one whatsoever.

“I would.” he said, swallowing. He watched as Hadrian's eyes focused in on the action, darting to the column of his neck. Hadrian walked toward him slowly, deliberately, giving Tom enough time to back away, to revoke his offer. Tom held his ground. The vampire came to a halt an arm's length away from Tom, green eyes unblinking and staring at the half-blood as though they could see into the very depths his shattered soul.

“Are you sure about this?” Hadrian asked, all seriousness. “I won't force you to do this. It's not too late to change your mind.” the vampire likely didn't mean it as a challenge, but Tom took it as one. He wouldn't be backing down from the situation.

“I'm sure.” Tom affirmed, and, when the vampire didn't make any move to approach him, took a tentative step forward so that they were standing close together once more. He could feel Hadrian's breath against his lips, smell Hadrian's distinct scent—woods and spices and tea and something unidentifiable as anything other than _Hadrian_.

A hand came up to rest on the side of his neck, hesitant, and Tom met Hadrian's eyes once again. The vampire's gaze was conflicted, and Tom's eyes darted to his lips as Hadrian began to speak.

“I hope you're not doing this because you feel obligated—”

“I'm not.” Tom cut him off. “Do it.”

In an action that went against just about every fibre of his being, the half-blood tilted his head to the side, baring his neck. He could hear Hadrian's sharp intake of breath, and had just long enough to begin to feel painfully aware of his submissive position before he sensed the vampire moving closer, felt the touch of lips ghosting over his pulse-point. Tom forced himself to remain still, but couldn't help the slight quickening of his heart.

Hadrian's grip on his neck became more forceful, more sure, and the vampire's other hand came to rest at his waist, holding him in place. Tom twitched, unable to suppress a small shiver of what should logically have been terror, but was closer to anticipation. He could tell that Hadrian was still being careful, still keeping some semblance of distance, but it wasn't much. Their chests were so close they were brushing, and—

Oh. 

_Oh._

It hurt at first; he'd expected it to. He hadn't, however, anticipated the intense pleasure that followed almost immediately after. Hadrian's fangs slipped into his skin easily, the motion practiced, and Tom reached up to grip the vampire's shoulders as he went limp, dizzy with sensation. Hadrian's mouth was against his neck, drinking, bruising, and his _magic—_

Tom thought that his magic might be the only thing keeping him standing, but that feat could also be ascribed to the arm wrapped firmly around his middle, holding him up. His magic escaped from the constraints he usually held it under, swirling and dancing through the air like electricity. Hadrian's magic mixed freely with Tom's own, pressing so close together that the half-blood couldn't tell where his magic ended and Hadrian's began. He didn't care, either. Waves of pleasure rolled through him like the sea, cresting and crashing and pulling him out with the tide.

“Hadrian—” he gasped, by he didn't have anything to say. He just held on tighter, eyes squeezed shut against the onslaught of sensation even as he leaned into the vampire's touch, tilting his head back further for better access. It was too much, it was not enough, it was unlike anything Tom had ever _dreamed_ of. 

It was over.

It ended as quickly as it had begun, though Tom couldn't have said how long ago that was, and his eyes snapped open as he felt Hadrian's fangs slip from his flesh. One of the vampire's hands, the one that had been holding his neck, brushed gently over the wound, healing it, but Tom hardly noticed. Hadrian didn't meet his eyes; his head was bowed, gaze fixed determinedly somewhere past Tom's shoulder. Tom reached out, tilting Hadrian's face up to meet him. His mouth went dry. The vampire's lips were crimson, wet with blood; his eyes still glowed unnaturally, drunk with Tom's essence, and _fuck_.

Tom pushed forward, slamming Hadrian up against the rough, cold, stone of one of the tower's few walls. The vampire's breath left him in a small 'whoosh' at the impact, and Tom quickly gathered Hadrian's slender wrists above his head, pinning them there with a hand of his own. The metal of Hadrian's bracelets was cold against Tom's hands, but the vampire's skin was hot.

Tom ached for him, ached as though he were hollow. He was more aware of Hadrian than he had ever been of anything, any _one_ else in his life; of the moonlight reflected on his pale, pale, skin, of the faint lightening-bolt scar marring the milky white of his forehead, of the fading virescent glow emanating from beneath the dark lashes of his half-closed eyes, of the lithe, strong body pressed so closely against Tom's own. But more than anything, Tom was aware of the arc of Hadrian's mouth, the supple crescent that was his bottom lip, the defined Cupid's bow of his top one. 

When Tom met Hadrian's gaze, he saw his own desire reflected in those pools of green. Here before him was one of the most dangerous Dark wizards in Europe, the only wizard to ever defeat him in a duel, his only equal. 

Tom surged forward, crushing his lips to the Hadrian's. Their mouths pressed together hotly, and Tom drew Hadrian's plump lower lip in between his own, tasting his blood in Hadrian's mouth. Rolling the wizard's lip between his teeth, Tom bit down, harsh enough to break the skin; Hadrian made a startled whimper, gasping so that Tom could slide his tongue through smooth lips and into the hot cavern of Hadrian's mouth. Tom moaned.

Hadrian responded with fervour, leaning up into the kiss, twining his tongue 'round Tom's. The half-blood pressed forward so that their bodies were slotted together so tightly he could feel the heat of Hadrian's body even through his robes, nudged a knee between Hadrian's so that their legs were intertwined. Magic rolled around them, turbulent and tempestuous as the wind now whipping at Tom's cloak; he could feel Hadrian half-hard against him.

Hadrian moaned, and the sound sent something deep and primal swirling deep within Tom's gut. With his free hand, the one that wasn't pinning the vampire's hands above his head, Tom gripped the sharp jut of the wizard's hip tightly, rolling his own hips in a deliberate circle against Hadrian's. Tom's breath caught in his throat, and he could feel Hadrian's sharp intake of breath against his lips, the way the vampire's willowy body had gone tight as a bowstring.

“Fuck, _Tom_ —”

The half-blood didn't let him finish the sentence, swallowing the vampire's words in a bruising kiss. “Shhh,” he murmured, breathing into Hadrian's mouth, _“I know,”_ he whispered, because he did; it was almost too intense. There was something about Hadrian— _his magic? His eyes? His witty remarks and impeccable duelling?_ —that made this different than it could ever be with someone else; someone ordinary.

Tom broke the kiss when he ran out of air, burying his face in Hadrian's shoulder, inhaling the scent of autumn leaves and spices and tea as the vampire kissed along his jaw and throat, nibbled on the lobe of his ear. Tom loosened his grip on Hadrian's hip, slipping his hand up under the thin white material of the wizard's shirt to slide across smooth skin. His hand travelled around to play circles on Hadrian's lower back, roamed up his chest and down to dip into the sensitive hollow of his hip; Hadrian shuddered against him, tugging at his restrained hands.

“I want to touch you,” said the vampire, breathlessly, and Tom groaned, capturing Hadrian's lips in yet another kiss as he let the wizard's pale wrists drop. Almost immediately, Tom found their positions reversed, the stone wall cold against his back and Hadrian hot pressed up against him. He shivered as hands, cold and gloveless and graceful, found their way into his hair, clutching and tangling and holding him in place while the vampire worried Tom's lip with his teeth, tasting of autumn now that the taste of blood had dissipated. Tom continued his exploration of Hadrian's body, his hands wandering from the smooth skin of his back to the taut muscle of the vampire's stomach. 

Hadrian's tongue slipped into his mouth, tracing over lips, teeth, tongue, making Tom's breath catch and distracting him so thoroughly that he hardly noticed the deft fingers deliberately undoing the buttons of his shirt. Hadrian's hands were cold against his chest, and he shivered as fingers ghosted over nipples gone taut and sensitive with arousal.

If their first kiss had been a battle, this was war.

When Hadrian's mouth left his, head dipping to engulf pink bud in unbearably hot wetness, Tom's lips parted, his eyes fell closed, his breath hitched. He arched off the wall, helpless, hands scrabbling for purchase against cloth and stone and finding it, finally, in Hadrian's inky locks. 

“Please,” he gasped, and he didn't know what he was asking for, but Hadrian seemed to understand because suddenly his mouth was gone, leaving Tom cold _,_ cold _, cold_ despite the vampire's breath, hot against the hollow of his throat. When Tom flipped them yet again, his arms slid around Hadrian's back, holding him up as the vampire's legs wrapped around his waist. Hadrian's head hit the wall with a thud, but his cry was one of pleasure rather than pain as Tom drew him still closer, mouthing along his jaw before stopping at his pulse point, sucking at the skin where he could feel Hadrian's heartbeat, strong and fast. 

It was then that Hadrian tensed, unwinding himself from Tom and jumping back as if burned. Tom's arms were left empty, cold, but his mind didn't even have time to form intelligible questions before Hadrian was pressing a hand to the back of his neck with a muttered “ _Fuck,_ ” and morphing into 'Julian'.

The door to the Astronomy tower swung open with a creak.

In the moonlight, Albus Dumbledore's beard shone more silver than auburn.

Tom's stomach dropped even as he schooled his face into an impassive expression, thoughts running through his mind more quickly even than the beating of Hadrian's heart. The vampire's reaction made sense now; he'd sensed Dumbledore approaching. Now, however, Tom didn't know how to salvage the situation; it was painfully obvious what they had been doing. Tom's shirt was unbuttoned entirely, his cloak askew and tie long gone. Beside him, even in the guise of 'Julian', Hadrian looked positively ravished, clothing wrinkled, shirt untucked, limp hair sticking up at odd angles, lips swollen and bruised, wan skin flushed.

Tom met Dumbledore's wide, surprised eyes levelly. “Good evening, Professor.” he said, breaking the silence. Because what else could he say? How could he explain this away? Dumbledore's eyes had ceased their usual twinkling, and darted between Tom and 'Julian', thoughtful, wary, bewildered.

“Good evening, Tom,” the professor turned his attention to Hadrian, brows drawing together. “Mr.—?”

“Pearce, sir. Julian Pearce.” Hadrian's voice was small in the night, adenoidal and hardly audible against the backdrop of the wind. For a moment, Tom marvelled at the transformation, the deception so thorough that the Deputy Headmaster of Hogwarts didn't even know his name.

Dumbledore's eyes narrowed, and he cleared his throat. “Well, Mr. Pearce, you and Mr. Riddle are out after hours. Would either of you care to explain yourselves?” while his words were spoken to both of them, the professor's eyes were focused on Tom.

“I was doing rounds, Professor.” the lie sounded hollow to his own ears. “Pearce had gotten locked out earlier—the door sticks, you see—and when I checked here on my rounds earlier, the door opened quite easily on my way up, but I found myself incapable of exiting later, with Pearce. We're quite fortunate that you found us so quickly. I feared that we would be stuck here all night.”

Dumbledore looked unconvinced. Tom could hardly blame him. “I have trouble imagining you being duped by a sticking door, Tom.” Tom hated the sound of his name on those old lips. In Dumbledore's condescending tone his name sounded plain, common; he hated it. When Hadrian had spokes his name, lips curving around the single syllable breathlessly as his hands tangled in Tom's hair, his name was fit for a king. For a Dark Lord.

“I must admit it was one of my more humiliating moments, sir.” 

The man was silent for a few moments, and the moonlight on his face accentuated the wrinkles around his eyes, his mouth, the way his cheeks were beginning to sag with age. “You may go, then.” he said, his kindly tone lacking sincerity. “I would ask you to not take any detours on you way to your Common Room.” Tom walked briskly toward the door, deciding to worry over Dumbledore's easy acceptance of his lie later. Now, he was cold, tired, confused. He could hear 'Julian's' shuffling footsteps behind him. His hand was on the doorknob when Dumbledore's voice rang out once again.

“Not you, Mr. Pearce.” he said, and Tom turned to look over his shoulder. Hadrian had barely moved two steps from where he'd been standing. “I would like to have a word with you alone.”

Tom met Hadrian's now dull, mildewy eyes, hesitating; he searched for any real panic or fear, but couldn't differentiate between the emotions Hadrian was projecting intentionally and any that might be real. The vampire nodded, subtly, _I'll be okay,_ he said, and Tom held his gaze for a minute more, trying to convey his own wordless message: _Do whatever you have to._

Tom turned and walked out the door.

..

..

..

..

'Julian' was skinny, even thinner than Hadrian was, and his body provided scant protection against the cold. Hadrian turned to face the Deputy Headmaster slowly, affecting a look of nervous apprehension that was not far from his true emotions. Dumbledore just stared at him.

“You weren't stuck out here.” the man said, and Hadrian looked at the ground, scuffed his feat on the stone floor. “Mr. Riddle wasn't doing rounds,” Hadrian had to be careful about this; 'Julian' would be too afraid of Dumbledore to lie to him, but too afraid of Tom to openly contradict him. He wrapped his bony arms around himself as though in a shielding gesture. 

Dumbledore already hated Tom; nothing Hadrian could say would change that. Dumbledore didn't hate 'Julian', though. Not yet, and so if Hadrian could somehow turn this so that he looked like a victim, an innocent bystander, well. It wasn't as though Dumbledore would be able to do anything to Tom anyway; he wouldn't have any proof.

“He was doing rounds,” his voice trembled pitifully, and he looked up to meet Dumbledore's eyes. Fabricating memories wasn't easy, but it wasn't impossible, either. Dumbledore's touch in his mind was skilled, hardly noticeable, as he saw what he wanted to see. 

_Julian forgetting his Astronomy textbook, sneaking out of the Dungeons to retrieve it. Julian's knees aching as he climbed the steps to the Astronomy tower. His fear as he turned to leave, textbook nowhere to be found, and saw Riddle looming in the doorway, smirking sinisterly and twirling his wand._

“H-he said he would report me for practicing Dark magic,” Hadrian cowered, hunching further in on himself. “He said it wouldn't m-matter that it's not true, the p-professors would believe him over me, and they w-would ex-expel me. He s-said that if they d-didn't ex-expel me, they wouldn't even n-notice if I d-disappeared, they'd just think I'd g-gotten lost in the f-forest again.” He trailed off into a whisper. “That they d-didn't even know who I was.” Hadrian looked up, then, fearful, accusing, and he could see that Dumbledore's face had changed. He looked softer now, sincere almost, and so Hadrian kept going.

“I d-didn't want it, Professor,” he let his voice crack, distressed, and met Dumbledore's eyes imploringly, _“You have to b-believe that I didn't want it,”_ he whispered, ducking his head, and a tear leaked from the corner of his left eye. He didn't wipe it away, instead he turned so that the wetness on his cheeks would catch in the moonlight. “ _Any_ of it,” he pressed shaking fingers to his lips and didn't have to feign the resultant wince; they were badly bruised.

He sniffled piteously, wiped his nose with his sleeve before looking up to Dumbledore's face, donning a look of incipient horror. “Y-you can't tell anyone, Professor!” His tiny body was shaking with cold, but he would let Dumbledore think it was trauma. “They already th-think I'm w-weak, that I'm an easy t-target. If they f-found out about this...” Hadrian buried his face in his hands, shaking with shallow sobs, tears running in streams from his mould-coloured eyes.

When he looked up, Dumbledore looked conflicted, his wrinkles deeper and face set in a deep frown. After long, painful minutes in which Hadrian's sobs had subsided to quiet sniffles, and he'd stopped forcing tears from his eyes, the Transfiguration professor spoke. He sounded older than Hadrian had ever heard him sound.

“I won't tell anyone, Mr. Pearce; I'm afraid Riddle was right in telling you that the professors would take his word over yours.”

Hadrian gave a sad, small, watery smile. “M-may I g-go, Professor?”

“You may go,” he said, and then “If this ever happens again, come to me immediately.” it was obvious that the man was trying to make his voice soothing, grandfatherly. Dumbledore reached out to touch his shoulder, his idea of a comforting gesture, no doubt, but Hadrian flinched back violently. He was glad he'd chosen the story he had, one that allowed him to avoid physical contact; if Dumbledore touched him, he might be able to sense his magic.

Hadrian nodded jerkily, and shuffled his way out the door.

..

..

..

..

Later, when Hadrian descended the spiralling staircase and Tom stepped out of the shadows where he had been waiting, the half-blood didn't ask what had happened. They walked all the way to the Slytherin dormitories in silence, and when Hadrian slipped into his bed and drew his curtains slowly shut, Tom didn't kiss his ugly, chapped lips softly, slowly, like he wanted to. Instead he said a quiet “Goodnight,” and walked to the bathroom. He leaned against the sink, staring intently at his reflection in the mirror, his pale skin, the faint purple shadows beneath his eyes, the two pink pinpricks on his neck where Hadrian's fangs had slid into his skin.

He told himself that this was all part of his plan, that he had to keep Hadrian close because the vampire was dangerous, and his Horcrux. He told himself that _that was the only reason_ , that Hadrian meant nothing to him.

Tom told himself he couldn't love him.


	18. A Fine Line

**A Fine Line**

.

~.~

.

“ _In the moment when I truly understand my enemy, understand him well enough to defeat him, then in that very moment I also love him. I think it’s impossible to really understand somebody, what they want, what they believe, and not love them the way they love themselves. And then, in that very moment when I love them.... I destroy them.”_

~Orson Scott Card

.

~.~

.

By the time Albus returned to his office, his tea had grown cold where it sat on his desk. He frowned as he lowered himself into his cushioned chair. Seventh year N.E.W.T. essays on _The Principles of Re-Materialisation_ littered the surface of the bureau, scattered where Albus had left off correcting them. Now, he pushed them aside, thinking.

Tonight's incident weighed heavily on his mind. It made sense, really, if Albus thought about it. Tom would of course take pleasure in exercising power over someone weak, defenceless. The fact that he had chosen to assault a boy was interesting, but Albus imagined that gender hadn't played a large role in Tom's selection. It was true that Pearce was weak, obscure; professors didn't notice him— _Albus_ hadn't noticed him—and so if his behaviour suddenly changed, well, it would hardly be of any import to the denizens of Hogwarts.

The boy was the perfect target.

Albus wondered if Horace had any idea what was happening between the students of his own House. Likely not; the Head of Slytherin was oblivious to the goings on around him, when he wanted to be; his blatant favouritism toward Tom Riddle was proof enough of that. No, Slughorn wouldn't even think of the possibility that the Head Boy could be exploiting his housemates so appallingly.

Albus sighed, removing his half-moon spectacles and placing them beside his cold tea. It was late, and he should get to sleep; he had a class after breakfast in the morning. And yet the Transfiguration professor made no move to get up; he doubted that sleep would come easily to him anyway. Too many thoughts pressed on his mind. Albus summoned a small, empty, crystal phial. Placing his wand to his temple, he concentrated on that night's memory; he drew it from his thoughts in a wispy silver strand, lowered it into the bottle. He labeled it _'Julian Pearce'_ and set it aside.

He had neither the time nor the energy to concern himself with Slytherins' problems; he was far more perturbed by the recent happenings within his own House. The atmosphere in the lion's den had been uneasy, as of late. As the war escalated, coming closer and closer to Britain, the students grew anxious. Several of the seventh years were planning to pursue careers as Aurors, a fact which made Albus glow with pride, but as a result, relationships between the students were strained. Even for those whose hearts swelled with courage, the prospect of losing one's friends to a war against Dark magic was more than worrisome.

Still, it wasn't the thought of prospective Aurors that troubled Albus tonight; it was the thought of one Minerva McGonagall, brilliant student, Head Girl, and Gryffindor extraordinaire.

She hadn't been the first of his lions to come to Albus with worries about the war.

They would come knocking in the middle of the night, freshly woken from nightmares. Albus would comfort them, offer them lemon drops and listen to their concerns about friends or family members that lived in Germany, or Poland, or France. In the end, all Albus could do was give them some tea (he thought it prudent to infuse the beverage with a calming draught), pat them on the back, and send them off to bed with only words for solace.

Minerva McGonagall hadn't come seeking comfort.

~.~

_Albus looked up from the desk at the front of the Transfiguration classroom when he heard the clearing of a throat. His seventh year N.E.W.T. Transfiguration class had ended, and he had been under the impression that the students had departed. Minerva McGonagall stood before him, fidgeting, Head Girl badge pinned neatly to the front of her robes. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun, and there was an uneasiness in her stance that immediately put Albus on edge. Minerva wasn't a girl easily ruffled._

“ _Good afternoon, Miss McGonagall,” he said easily. “May I tempt you with a lemon drop?”_

_Her smile was small, polite; genuine, if a little strained. “No, but thank you for offering, Professor.”_

_Albus waved a hand to the space in front of his desk. “Do take a seat, my dear.”_

_There wasn't a chair, but Minerva wasn't perturbed. She withdrew a textbook from her book bag and transfigured herself a delicate looking chair that appeared to me made of mahogany. Albus smiled at the intricate carvings on the arms; the girl was extraordinarily talented._

“ _Well done, Miss McGonagall. Five points to Gryffindor.”_

“ _Thank you, sir,” she said as she sat, but her smile didn't seem to reach her eyes. She seemed to gather her courage before continuing. “Professor, I would like to ask you something about the War.”_

_Albus's eyebrows rose, but he nodded, understanding. “It is indeed a difficult time we find ourselves in. I have no doubt that soon, the war will be upon us here in Britain.”_

_Minerva pursed her lips, frowning slightly. “It's not that, Professor. You see, I was just wondering—and I know that this may seem a rather odd question—why is it that Grindelwald's followers, well, follow him?”_

“ _I imagine they aspire toward a society overrun with Dark magic,” he said, carefully. This hadn't been what he expected. Minerva shifted in her seat._

“ _And what exactly is it, Professor? Dark magic, I mean.” if she had looked nervous when she had sat down, it was nothing compared to how she looked now, anxiety seeping from her brow in the form of beads of sweat._

_Albus answered carefully. “Dark magic is illegal. It is dangerous, volatile,” he thought of Gellert, of how carefree he had been the summer they spent together. “It corrupts those who wield it—it has driven many a great man to madness.”_

_The girl frowned. “What about those who are born with Dark magic?” she asked, and, suspiciously, Albus reached out to test her magic. It was pure, indubitably Light. She seemed to notice the touch of his magic, for she hurried to add “I've been reading, is all. The Restricted Section.”_

_Of course she had. Albus seldom saw the girl without a book in her arms. He leaned forward in his chair. “Wizards from Dark families, you mean? Dark creatures?”_

_She nodded._

“ _Though it is rare, those with inherently Dark magic can be reformed.” the answer didn't seem to satisfy Minerva._

“ _And if they embrace their natural magic? What then?”_

“ _Then they are a danger to others. To themselves. To our society. Then they must be eliminated; this is, of course, why we have Aurors.”_

_Minerva looked away, swallowed. She seemed to fight herself for a moment before, suddenly, “Blood-wards,” she blurted, and Albus's brows drew together._

“ _Pardon?”_

“ _Blood-wards. They are Dark magic, aren't they? But they're some of the strongest protection wards in existence! I read in Hogwarts, a History that there are even blood wards protecting Hogwarts. Surely if such spells are used to protect a school full of children, Dark magic can't be entirely evil.”_

_Albus's lips became a thin line. “Those wards were erected by Salazar Slytherin, Miss McGonagall. He was a Dark wizard. The same Dark wizard that left a deadly basilisk in this school full of children. You don't need reminding of last year's murder, do you?”_

_Minerva looked down, cowed, but Albus could see something stubborn in the set of her shoulders._

“ _Of course not, Professor Dumbledore. I was being foolish.” she stood, flicking her wand at the chair, which quickly shrank back into a textbook. “Thank you for your time.”_

_As the door clicked quietly closed behind her, the Head of Gryffindor was left alone in the classroom, uneasiness like lead in his chest._

~.~

Albus took a sip of his cold tea and wished it was something stronger.

.

~.~

.

Exactly four weeks elapsed between the morning Hadrian watched Nyx soar from the owlery with _A Light Wizard's Guide to Dark Magic_ clutched firmly in her talons, dark feathers glinting in the morning light, and the morning he shuffled out of his Advanced Arithmancy class to catch sight of Minerva McGonagall lurking in a shaded alcove across the hall.

“Pearce!” she called softly when she saw him, glancing around to make sure none of the other students had noticed her. Hadrian smiled cordially and made his way toward her.

“Good morning, McGonagall,” he said, and she crept out of the alcove.

“Follow me,” she said, motioning down the hall, and Hadrian did. In lieu of portraits, the hallway was decorated with elaborate, antique tapestries. Some were so old that their edges were worn and frayed, and it was before one of the least remarkable of these tapestries that McGonagall finally halted. The other students had long ceased their bustling and hurried on to their next class, and so when the Head Girl made to check for onlookers once again, Hadrian chuckled.

“I do believe we're alone,” he said, and the witch cast one more suspicious glance around the hallway before pushing aside the tapestry and revealing a dark corridor that looked as though it hadn't seen a house elf in decades, if not centuries. Hadrian absently wondered how many secret passageways Hogwarts boasted—he had been rather thorough in his searches of the castle, and yet he had been unaware of this particular hidden corridor. McGonagall ushered him inside.

It was dark when the tapestry fell back into place behind them, and Hadrian conjured a radiant ball of light which hovered above his hand. In the yellow glow, McGonagall's face was etched with shock.

“You can do wandless magic?” she spoke quietly, her eyes leaving the light to meet Hadrian's. He smirked.

“I can do quite a few kinds of magic,” he said significantly. The Head Girl inhaled sharply.

“About that,” she hesitated, “I've been doing quite a lot of extracurricular reading lately,” Hadrian quirked an eyebrow in response to her pointed look. “Unfortunately, I can't seem to find much unbiased information about my current subject of interest. I thought that you might have some information gleaned from first hand experience that you would be willing to share with me.”

The vampire gave her an assessing look. She looked uncomfortable, out of her element, but she also looked determined. She obviously hadn't made the decision to speak with him lightly. “Why now?” he asked, “It's already December—you've had the book for _weeks_. Don't tell me you weren't curious; why didn't you approach me sooner?”

Hadrian's skin tingled as he felt a privacy ward sweep through the hidden corridor. McGonagall's wand was clutched loosely in her right hand. “You must understand that it isn't easy to completely readjust the way you think of the world—of magic. I had to research, to verify that what the book says is true; I had to talk to a certain individual whom I have, until recently, held in quite high regard, to see if he was indeed so prejudiced as our government seems to be.”

Hadrian's voice, when he spoke, was carefully level. “You spoke to Dumbledore about Dark magic.”

McGonagall lifted her chin, undaunted. “I'm not daft—I didn't tell him about the book—I just had to see what he had to say about it. I figured that he would be knowledgeable about it, because he _is_ knowledgeable about most things _,_ but he would only tell me that Dark magic and those who wield it are evil.”

“Aren't they? I would call Grindelwald evil.” Hadrian was baiting her, he knew it, but he had to be certain. McGonagall heaved an exasperated sigh.

“Don't play dumb, Julian. I know that there are other powerful Dark wizards, ones who don't support Grindelwald.”

Hadrian raised an eyebrow. “What gave you _that_ idea?”

Minerva stood up straighter, took a deep breath. “You,” she said, and Hadrian had to stop himself from twitching. He elected to remain silent, to let her explain herself. “I've been able to sense magic since my sixth year,” she wasn't bragging, but Hadrian was impressed irregardless. He'd known that she was powerful, but if she could actually _sense magic_...He'd been right about wanting her as an ally. “At first, I could sense Light magic more easily than Dark, since I'm Light myself, but I've been practicing. Now, I can tell what kind of magic someone has and how much of it. I can sense some sort of magic from everyone.

“Well, almost everyone. I can't sense any magic from you.”

Were he not fairly certain that McGonagall was on his side, he would have obliviated her. As it were, he simply leaned back against the dusty wall of the corridor, listened to her deductions. There was something beautiful about watching an intelligent mind work.

“It takes a tremendous amount of power and skill to mask one's own magic, Pearce. Therefore you _must_ be a powerful wizard.”

“What makes you think I'm Dark?”

“You wouldn't be masking your magic if you weren't. A Light wizard has nothing to hide.”

Hadrian smirked. “ _You_ do, don't you? You may be Light, but you sympathise with the Dark. That could earn you a decade in Azkaban.”

McGonagall's magic sparked in anger. “I'll not be told what to believe! Neither by Dumbledore and the Wizengamot nor by Grindelwald and his followers.” Hadrian smiled at the fire in her eyes.

“What will you do, then?” he asked. “You're a Light witch supporting Dark rights.”

“What will _you_ do?” she countered. “You're a powerful Dark wizard who refuses to support Grindelwald.”

Hadrian grinned. “Why, I'll support the _other_ side, of course. The third side.”

McGonagall looked sceptical. “I wasn't aware that there was a third side.”

“I don't imagine you would've heard of it. It's still in its inception.”

“And what, exactly, will this third side be fighting for?” she spoke slowly, seeming to test the words.

Hadrian hesitated. This was a crucial point; it wouldn't do to scare her away with too much information. “Magical equality; legalisation of Dark magic. An end to discrimination based on blood, be it Muggle or Creature.”

McGonagall was silent for a moment, her eyebrows drawn together and her hands clasped tightly before her. When she finally met Hadrian's gaze, her brownish eyes swirled with fervour. Hadrian could tell he had her.

“And who will lead this third side?” she asked, voice low.

Hadrian reached up to touch the back of his neck. In the half-light, his eyes glowed like emeralds.

As his glamour fell, Hadrian's magic whirled through the corridor, Dark and strong and _free._ McGonagall's eyes widened. Hadrian grinned.

“I will.”

.

~.~

.

Tom was already late for his Arithmancy class when a pale hand darted out of the shadows to grasp the front of his robes and tug him forcibly from the hallway into a dark, foreign passageway hidden behind a tapestry. Immediately he was on edge, wand clutched tightly and eyes straining to see in the darkness. He could feel several wards bending to engulf him, and, as they did so, he became aware of another's presence in the room. He lowered his wand at the influx of familiar magic.

“What is the meaning of this?” he asked, and, as his eyes adjusted to the dimness—the only light source appeared to be a small ball of light floating somewhere close to the entrance—he could make out the form of Hadrian leaning against the stone wall, grinning. Tom felt like smiling too, just looking at Hadrian's expression. The vampire's apparent happiness was almost overpowering.

“We've got McGonagall,” he said, casual tone belying the elation written across his face. “She's decided to side with us in the war. Well, with me. She doesn't seem to be particularly fond of you, believe it or not.”

Tom's mind reeled. “You don't mean to tell me that you actually told her who you are, do you?” he demanded. The vampire's judgement when it came to McGonagall had always seemed rather poor, but he wouldn't honestly reveal his identity, would he?

“Of course.” his tone was cocky, unconcerned. Tom wanted to hit him. “She did figure out quite a lot on her own, though.” Tom took a steadying breath.

Minerva McGonagall was going to have to die. That much was certain now. He couldn't allow Hadrian to endanger himself like this.

“I'm going to kill her,” Tom voiced his thoughts, turning to exit the corridor. He needed time to plan this.

“You will do no such thing,” Hadrian's voice was cold, chastising, and his hand grabbed Tom's arm firmly, holding him back inside the wards. “I told McGonagall because I'm sure that she can be trusted, and because by divulging my identity, I've gained _her_ trust in return. It's important for her to trust me.”

Tom wrenched his arm free from Hadrian's grasp, turning sharply and backing the other wizard up against the wall. “You don't need your followers to trust you. They just have to obey you.” Sometimes Hadrian's morals just got in his own way.

They were so close that Hadrian's chest brushed against Tom's as the vampire heaved a sigh.

“I don't have followers, Tom. I don't aspire to be a Dark Lord like you do; I don't _want_ followers. Minerva McGonagall decided that she wants to fight alongside me in this battle for Dark rights because she thinks it's the right thing to do, and I admire her for that. Don't you dare harm her.”

Jealously flared somewhere deep within Tom's gut at the protective tone in Hadrian's voice, but he quelled it, swallowing even as he unconsciously brought a hand up to rest casually on Hadrian's hip, a possessive gesture he wasn't aware of until he he felt Hadrian's magic stir at the contact. “Don't you think it's rather suspicious that a Light witch is apparently an advocate for Dark rights?” he said, hoping that the vampire would see reason.

“I don't think it's suspicious that a Light witch can be a _good person_ , no.” Tom shook his head in exasperation. For how much he knew Hadrian had been through in his life, the vampire could be exhaustingly optimistic. “Besides, we shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth.”

Tom snorted, brushing a stray lock of hair from Hadrian's eyes. “Because that worked out so well for the Trojans.” he deadpanned.

The corner of Hadrian's mouth kicked up into a half-smile, and it was times like this that Tom wanted to smother his lips with his own, but the vampire reached up to move Tom's hand away from his face. He'd been doing that frequently, recently—avoiding Tom's touches. The half-blood didn't know why, exactly, but since it was obvious that Hadrian was attracted to him, Tom dared to hope that perhaps Hadrian's skittishness was due to something _deeper_ that the vampire was afraid of.

It would make two of them, even if Tom refused to dramatically alter his behaviour.

Hadrian's fingers laced with his own, now, and Tom looked on in fascinated satisfaction as the Peverell heir held their entwined hands. Tom's pale skin looked almost golden in comparison to the vampiric pallor of Hadrian's. “I can't afford to be picky about my allies, Tom. I'll be lucky if I even survive long enough to help wage this war.” something painful twisted in Tom's chest at the thought of the vampire dying. He wouldn't let it happen.

Hadrian seemed to hesitate for a moment then, his grasp on Tom's hand growing tighter. “Tom, you have to promise me that if I die, you'll keep fighting. Against Dumbledore or Grindelwald or whoever it is that tries to oppress people like us. People like me.”

Tom pressed close to the vampire, touching their foreheads together. They were almost exactly the same height, though at times the vampire's willowy physique made him seem smaller.

“I will,” Tom said, and he meant it. He would be the next Dark Lord one way or another, and he was coming to appreciate just how advantageous the having the favour of Creatures could be.

That was _the only reason_ for his promise.

“I'm serious, Tom.” Hadrian's lips were pursed, brooding. “You shouldn't limit yourself to Dark wizards either. One sympathiser from the Light side is worth more than ten from the Dark. The Ministry is run by Light wizards, and is an institution that—” the vampire smirked “—like _Troy_ , must be taken from within. You'll never be successful if you try to defeat every Light witch and wizard. They must surrender, accept your control as being for the best. You have to be fair to them.”

Tom frowned, gripping Hadrian's hand more tightly. “You're not going to die,” he said, his voice steady, sure. “We'll amass allies at the Gathering next week, and you'll defeat Grindelwald whenever he finds you. You have far too much to do for you to be discussing the details of your premature death.”

Hadrian chuckled, but it was half-hearted. He disentangled his hand from Tom's, reached into the pocket of his trousers to withdraw an antiquarian pocket-watch. “I have to go,” said the vampire, checking the time.

Frowning, Tom asked “Why do you have a watch? Wouldn't it be easier to just use ' _Tempus_?'”

The wizard looked surprised for a moment, looking from Tom to his watch. “You don't know?” he asked, and the half-blood bristled.

“I'm not sure what you're referring to.”

“It's traditional for a wizard's parents to give him a watch when he comes of age.”

Sometimes Tom forgot that although Hadrian's had lived in an orphanage, he wasn't like Tom. He'd had the childhood of a wizard, too. Tom raised an eyebrow, silently asking the obvious question. Hadrian's parents—blood or otherwise—had been dead before he turned seventeen. The vampire ducked his head.

“It's from a friend, Bayard Carax. We've been close since we were young, and he was like a brother to me when I lived in France growing up.”

For the second time since being pulled into the shadowed corridor, Tom felt jealousy flare in his chest. Somehow, he had never pictured Hadrian with friends. Attachments. “I should go,” said the vampire, slipping the watch back into his pocket. “I have Potions, and I need to finish brewing the _Draught of Living Death_ today during the lesson or I'll not pass the class.”

Tom frowned. “They only brew the Draught of Living Death in N.E.W.T. Potions.”

Hadrian nodded, quirked an eyebrow. “You're point?”

“How did you manage to get into N.E.W.T. Potions? You're an abysmal student.”

“Not really. I pass all of my classes, if only just barely. If I appeared _too_ incompetent, it would draw attention. As for the N.E.W.T. Classes, I did well on my O.W.L.s. The teachers don't care about me enough to notice the discrepancy, and I need to get an education somehow. They don't even notice that I'm there, usually.”

Tom nodded, examining the dust that blanketed the stone of the walls like snow did the hills outside. He should have realised that Hadrian would be taking his education seriously. It would be ridiculous to ignore the opportunity, considering the fact that Hogwarts offered some of the best education in Europe.

Soft footsteps echoed in the darkness as Hadrian turned to leave, and Tom waited for the swishing sound of the tapestry being pushed aside. It didn't come. The half-blood glanced up, met Hadrian's shadowed gaze squarely where the vampire stood near the tapestry. His eyes had gone soft with something secret as they looked at Tom, seeming to stare through him and into the depths of his shattered soul. Tom swallowed. Hadrian hesitated.

“Tom,” his name sounded foreign as the vampire seemed to test the sound of it against the quiet of the passageway.

“Yes?”

“I...” the vampire trailed off, bit his lip. Tom approached him slowly, stopping when he was standing a few feet before him. The half-blood remained silent; his heartbeat was loud in the quiet of the corridor. Hadrian took one step toward him, then another, reached out to tentatively cup the side of Tom's face. The wizard felt his magic stir in response, and raised his hand to lay it atop Hadrian's, prolonging the contact.

“Thank you,” the vampire said at last, voice so low that Tom almost missed the sadness in it. _For what?_ He thought, but then he remembered the promise Hadrian had asked for.

His eyebrows drew together as the vampire moved forward, tilting his head to press his lips chastely against Tom's. Hadrian's mouth was warm and soft and _home_ against his, but the kiss was over seemingly before it had begun, and Hadrian pulled away slowly, his hand lingering on Tom's cheek.

Tom was still frowning when Hadrian spun toward the exit, touching a hand to the back of his neck and pushing aside the tapestry and letting a sliver of light fall into the passage.

A promise. Sealed with a kiss.

Darkness reigned once more as the tapestry fell closed, and Tom's stomach turned. He leaned back against the dusty, cold stone, closed his eyes against the darkness of the corridor.

Hadrian Peverell was ruining him.

He was changing the way Tom thought, the way he looked at the world. He was changing him and moulding him into something new, kissing him and asking him to make promises. Tom didn't promise anyone _anything,_ at least not with the intention of keeping it. Except now he _did_. Because it was HadrianfuckingPeverell.

Hadrian had no right to ask that of him. He had no right to talk about dying either, like it was inevitable. He had no right to make Tom _ache_ the way he did.

He had no right to ruin him.

Tom turned around, snarled, slammed a fist against the wall. The impact echoed hollowly off the stone, and he could feel the skin of his knuckles split, blood dripping down his fingers in slow rivulets. Because if Tom was going to fall, he was bloody well taking the vampire down with him.

He was going to destroy Hadrian Peverell. And even as Tom's heart ached at the prospect of causing him harm, he vowed to break Hadrian so utterly that maybe, just maybe, he could save himself from the inevitable.

.

~.~

.

The Room of Requirement was never quite the same, when Hadrian was in it.

Usually, it was stark and spartan, empty except for dummies for his target practice; sometimes it was a sitting room not unlike the parlour in the mansion that used to be his home; more often, it was a cosier one like that in his library. Other times, if he approached it when he was in a particularly foul mood, the Room would take the shape of a concert hall, grand piano centre-stage and calling to Hadrian like an old friend; he quit the room hurriedly, chest tight, when _that_ happened. Although the temptation was strong, he didn't have the heart for music anymore.

Tonight, though, the Room resembled something similar to the Great Hall. Constellations wheeled across a vaulted ceiling that was only distinguishable from the sky by the dim outlines of its arches, and the walls of the room were lost in shadow. A blazing fire provided the room's only light, its warm glow illuminating the figure that lay sprawled across the Turkish rug before the hearth. The room was otherwise empty of decoration.

It was silent, save for the crackling of the fire and the occasional scraping sound of a quill on parchment. Hadrian bit his lip, frowning as he pondered how to phrase the next paragraph of his Potions essay. He didn't want to sound too intelligent, but the essay needed to be good enough to warrant a passing grade. He rubbed his neck; it was beginning to ache from his position on the floor, but he couldn't be bothered to move; the fire was warm beside him, chasing away the cold that lurked in the shadows of the Room.

The relative silence was broken as the large oaken doors creaked open, and Hadrian looked up from the slanted, untidy scrawl of 'Julian's' writing. Yellow torchlight spilled in from the hallway outside, and Hadrian blinked when he recognised Tom's silhouette framed in the entrance; it must have been later than he had thought.

It wasn't something they had spoken of; not really. They didn't so much as glance at each other during meals, didn't sit next to each other in classes, didn't converse in the hallways. But they met, late at night, in the Room of Requirement. Hadrian spent much of his time here anyway; training, studying, simply relaxing without his glamour. Sometimes, he even slept in the Room, though he hadn't been doing so as often recently.

More eyes were on him now, and he didn't wish to be caught wandering the seventh floor early in the mornings, Invisibility Cloak or no. Usually he just stayed a while past midnight, and returned to the dormitories to sleep. Less students milled about the castle after hours, and it still afforded him time to see Tom. The half would drop by after Slug Club dinners or meetings with his Knights of Walpurgis. Tonight, it had been the latter, judging by the turbulent state of Tom's magic; meetings usually left him irritated.

And yet it was possible that Tom was just anxious, as Hadrian was. Tom hadn't come to the Room last night, not after they'd spoken in the secret passageway outside of the Arithmancy classroom, and the vampire felt as though he was walking on eggshells whenever he was in the half-blood's presence.

Hadrian pushed his parchment and textbook aside as Tom stalked toward him. The half-blood was unusually quiet, wordless as he lowered himself to sit on the carpet beside the other wizard. Hadrian rolled onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow to get a better look at Tom's expression; it was carefully blank, but the vampire could detect traces of tightness around his eyes.

“Grovelling followers more impudent than usual?” he asked, breaking the silence. Tom merely frowned, pushing at Hadrian's shoulder and rolling him onto his back. “Hey—” he stopped speaking abruptly as Tom swung a leg over his own, straddling his hips.

Something had changed; Hadrian could feel it in the thickness of the air that hung between them.

It wasn't that Tom hadn't been touching him lately; there had been lingering touches, the occasional caress of a cheek or neck or wrist. But since the incident in the Astronomy tower, Hadrian had been hesitant, trying to distance himself. He knew he shouldn't be doing this. Tom was manipulating him; he knew that, yet he couldn't bring himself to deny the easy camaraderie, the way his magic sang when they touched. The vampire _knew_ , somehow or another, that he was going to get hurt if he let himself fall much further into this delicate thing that existed between them; Hadrian was well aware of his limits, and he feared that if he donned the mask of a wizard in love...well. His heart might just grow to fit it.

And yet it would seem that he couldn't resist the lure of Tom's mind, his body, his magic. There was something gentle about Tom when he touched him; something that—Hadrian dared to hope—couldn't be feigned by even a liar as skilled and ruthless as the heir of Slytherin. It drew Hadrian in even as he tried to escape it.

Now, there was nothing gentle about Tom's touches.

Not that Hadrian was complaining. His lips parted willingly at a swipe of Tom's tongue, and the vampire moaned as he snaked a hand into Tom's irritatingly tidy dark hair. The half-blood kissed him fiercely, cruelly, but the savage, deliberate slide of his tongue was at odds with the trembling of the hands that slowly, deftly despite their shaking, undid the buttons of Hadrian's shirt.

The vampire's breath hitched as Tom pulled away from his mouth, leaning down to brush his lips across Hadrian's now bare collarbone. A warm tongue dipped into the hollow of his throat, and Hadrian gasped, his magic spiking. Flames leapt higher within the hearth, and Tom's dark hair glinted gold in the firelight. The vampire twisted his fingers further into Tom's tresses, tugging the half-blood away from his ministrations and crushing his lips back to Hadrian's.

Now it was Tom who groaned as Hadrian licked into the wet cavern of his mouth, tongue exploring even as their teeth clashed and the vampire grew dizzy from the lack of air. Tom's magic slipped against Hadrian's body along, a sensuous slide of Dark against Dark. It was true that Hadrian had more power than the half-blood, but that was neither here nor there as magic twined with magic, and the inherent Darkness in Tom's aura flowed through the vampire's veins like some drug.

Hadrian couldn't think through the haze of magic and air deprivation.

When at long last Tom pulled away, Hadrian sucked in long, deep breaths as though he were a human who would die without oxygen. Finally, the vampire raised his eyes to look at Tom; the half-blood's lips were swollen and his hair was in disarray. Hadrian would have chuckled at the sight of the half-blood's usually neat hair in such a state, perhaps, but there was something serious in the crimson glint of Tom's eyes, and Hadrian's throat was dry as he swallowed.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked, still slightly breathless as he looked up into Tom's face. The half-blood smirked.

“Because I want you, Hadrian.” his voice was husky, and the vampire shivered at the fell promise sheathed like a dagger in the dense space between the words. “Don't you want me?”

The half-blood lowered himself until he was lying completely atop Hadrian, their bodies pressing together in one long line. Tom placed an elbow on either side of the vampire's head, caging him in, and Hadrian frowned as the other wizard lifted a hand to twirl a lock of tousled, jet-black hair between long fingers. Hadrian's hands came up to grip Tom's shirt, curling into the fabric as if by holding on tightly enough he could stop himself from falling off the brink of a cliff.

The passion from earlier was gone, replaced by something dark and subtle and insidious that lingered in the depths of Tom's crimson eyes, in the fingers brushing through Hadrian's hair. The wizard was close enough that Hadrian could feel warm breath ghosting across his cheeks; close enough that he could smell cold rain and warm musk and _Tom;_ close enough that the vampire could see the sinister smirk lingering on Tom's lips from when he'd asked, almost innocently, _Don't you want me?_

Close enough to kiss. Close enough to kill. Close enough to smash Hadrian into pieces.

And he _knew_ as surely as he knew his own namethat Tom would most certainly do just that. He would tear him apart, wreck him.

And Hadrian would let him. Because maybe, just maybe, loving Tom would be worth it.

“I do,” he said, and Tom's smirk widened.


	19. The Revolution

**The Revolution**

.

~.~

.

_“Better to die on one's feet than to live on one's knees.”_

~Jean-Paul Sartre

.

~.~

.

 

Hadrian lost his virginity the night of his fifteenth birthday.

_~.~_

_Streetlights cast long, blue shadows as the summer sun set over Florence, and evening drew her curtains patiently, the day fading to night in quiet shades of purples and pinks. The Arno river wound through the city heavily, glistening like some great slumbering serpent, and reflecting softly the gloaming's first blinking lights. Street lamps shone like molten gold in the river's placid waters, their distorted reflections shivering as a summer breeze floated across the water, and the first stars of the night blinked into existence without ado. The sound of distant laughter wafted in from the street outside, drifting lazily through the gauzy, billowing drapes of the hotel room's large windows._

_Hadrian leant against the window frame, pulling aside the curtain to peer out over the city. Every few minutes, the chatter of passing muggles would be interrupted by the distinct crack of apparition as those privy to the location of the Gathering arrived early. Dark witches and wizards slipped into the heavily warded entrance of the hotel in ones and twos, drawn in like moths to a flame. Hadrian himself had faded into the shadows of a nearby alleyway a mere two hours ago, and had promptly checked into the prearranged accommodations. The Gathering would begin the next night, and the Accursio manor, where it would be hosted this year, wasn't large enough to house all of the guests. Thus, arrangements had been made by the hosting family for those attendees who were apprised of the location to sojourn in a wizarding hotel just across the river from their manor. Those who didn't yet know the location—that is to say_ most _of the attendants—would be put up in the guest wing of the manor when they arrived the following night._

_Hadrian planned to attend the Gathering alone, this year. Carina was in Asia on business, Samsa her reluctant companion, and his friend Bayard—with whom he had attended the past two years—had 'familial obligations' to attend to. This in itself was rather odd, as surely no 'familial obligations' could be of greater import than a Gathering, but Hadrian supposed it wasn't his place to judge. He didn't mind attending alone, and, to be quite honest, it was rather nice to be without Carina for a few days; he loved his mother, truly, but she could be rather overbearing at times._

Yes _, Hadrian thought as he breathed in the sweet Florentine air,_ perhaps this will be a rather refreshing birthday.

_Just then, a knock sounded at the door of his room. Hadrian looked over his shoulder, tried to sense who was outside, but the rooms were too well-warded to allow for much in the way of magical identification. Curiously, Hadrian turned away from the window and walked in the direction of the door. The mystery visitor knocked again just as the vampire reached the small foyer. Hadrian drew one of his wands from within the pocket of his trousers. With his other hand, he grasped the brass doorknob, turning it deftly and throwing the door open with a bang, his wand raised, only to be swept into a crushing hug before he had time to so much as wonder what in Merlin's name Bayard Carax was doing at his door with a bottle of wine._

“Joyeux anniversaire, mon cher Hadrian!” _Bayard said as finally, Hadrian managed to wriggle out of the embrace._

“ _Bayard, I could have cursed you! What are you doing here?” Hadrian was smiling, though, as he pushed the door closed with a soft click._

“ _Celebrating your fifteenth, of course.” the pureblood grinned, waving the bottle of wine he was carrying; Hadrian recognised it as a vintage French chardonnay—his favourite. “You've grown.” Bayard was smirking, taunting him even as the comment rang true. Hadrian had grown like a weed in springtime during the past year, now standing several inches above Carina, but unfortunately still substantially shorter than Bayard. The French wizard was just exceptionally tall._

“ _I_ have _grown, thank you very much.” Hadrian crossed his arms before his chest, huffing. “Besides, you're two years older than I am; by the time I'm your age, I've no doubt_ you'll _be the one looking up to_ me _.” the vampire himself doubted the veracity of this statement, but it didn't matter, really. Although he knew that he would grow more, his current height didn't bother him much._

_He beckoned his friend into the main part of the room. The habitation was expensive, tasteful, but by no definition spacious. The only furniture to be found was the bed, a large canopied thing draped in layers of soft quilts and duvets, and a small writing desk in the corner. It was supposed to be a room for one, after all. Hadrian invited Bayard to sit on the bed while he conjured wine-glasses._

“ _I take it your 'familial obligations' were a ruse?” he asked as he climbed onto the cream-coloured duvet, seating himself cross-legged opposite Bayard, who had adopted a similar position. He proffered a wine glass, and the pureblood uncorked the bottle._

“ _But of course. How could I hope to surprise you if you knew that I was already here?” Hadrian chuckled softly, sighing. After Bayard poured the wine, he exchanged glasses with the younger wizard, so that the Hadrian now held the filled glass. Hadrian hummed softly as he swirled the red liquid, relishing the velvety bouquet that danced across his senses like wind across the river outside. He put the glass to his lips and swallowed several large mouthfuls._

“ _Thank you,” he said, and he couldn't stop grinning. Growing up mainly in France, he'd had a taste for fine wine from a very young age. That wasn't to say he enjoyed alcohol in general, because he didn't—to be quite honest, Hadrian didn't drink often, and had never before been drunk; it was simply too dangerous to let his guard down so blatantly. But he was safe here, and so he took another sip._

_Good wine, good company; his birthday was turning out to be quite fantastic, really. “How have you been?” he asked, for he hadn't seen Bayard in months, and was genuinely curious. The wizard should have graduated from Beauxbatons in June, and would likely be looking for work. Not that he needed to work, what with his family's affluence, but Bayard had always been the kind of wizard that didn't like to remain idle. “Did you do well on your N.E.W.T.s?”_

_His friend grinned. “Well enough that Gringotts France accepted my application for a position as Curse-Breaker,” his flippant tone belied the excitement in his eyes. Hadrian's eyebrows climbed impossibly high on his forehead._

“Gringotts _? But they_ never _hire students straight out of school!”_

“ _Well, I suppose they do now.” the pureblood ducked his head, bashful._

_Hadrian reached out to take hold of his friend's hand, squeezing slightly and smiling warmly. “Congratulations, Bayard, I'm proud of you.”_

_The pureblood blushed a little, and Hadrian was struck by the way the pink spread across his tanned cheeks. Bayard looked at their intertwined fingers, ran his thumb over the pale skin of the vampire's hand. Hadrian raised his glass, clearing his throat._

“ _To your first occupational success. May there be many more.” he toasted, and Bayard snorted, raising his own glass._

“ _To you,” he said, “To the kind, generous, loyal, powerful, and devilishly handsome wizard you're growing to be. To the best friend I could ever ask for.”_

_Now it was Hadrian whose cheeks reddened, face growing hot as he blushed. Still, he managed to raise his glass, and the resounding clink of crystal against crystal sounded like the bells that chimed in the city beyond the translucent curtains. Hadrian drank the rest of his wine. Bayard refilled both of their glasses._

_They sipped the chardonnay in silence, fingers still intertwined. When Bayard turned to refill their glasses a third time, Hadrian noted through the pleasant haze of alcohol that the bottle was empty. “Do you have a room here?” he asked, and somehow his articulation wasn't quite so sharp as it was usually._

_Bayard frowned. “They were out of rooms—can I sleep here?” his words, too, were slightly slurred._

“ _Of course,” Hadrian nodded. They hadn't shared a bed since they were quite a lot younger, but it wasn't anything he was uncomfortable with. He leaned across the bed—across_ Bayard _—to set his glass down on the small bedside table. His balance was off, though, and he promptly began to wobble, and would have fallen to the floor were it not for the strong arms which caught him, pulled him back against Bayard's firm chest. The two tumbled back onto the bed's multitudinous pillows, falling in a heap of tangled limbs and inebriate laughter. Hadrian had fallen on top of the older wizard, and now he propped himself up on his elbows, raising himself so that he could examine Bayard's face._

_Bayard wasn't attractive in a traditional sense; his aquiline, slightly crooked nose, and dark, straight brows lent his visage a rather sinister air, and his sunken, pale grey eyes shone incongruously bright against the tan of his skin. Indeed, the seventeen year old looked rather intimidating to those who didn't know him well, and the wizard tended to comport himself with a sort of calculating, deliberate cool befitting his daunting countenance when he was in public. No, it wasn't Bayard's features that made him attractive; it was the air of confidence and quiet power with which he carried himself, the honest kindness which he displayed only to those he trusted._

_And yet, in the warm light of the hotel room, the harsh angles of Bayard's face were softened, his cheeks flushed, and his thin lips were stretched in an artless smile. Hadrian thought he looked rather lovely like that, and so without much thought, the vampire leant down, pressed his mouth to Bayard's. When he drew back, the older wizard's eyes were wide with surprise, but almost immediately that faded, and Bayard gripped the front of his shirt, pulling him into a deeper kiss. The feeling of his tongue against Hadrian's was foreign, but not unwelcome, and the vampire found himself moaning as they removed each other's clothing slowly, gently. The kisses were clumsy with inexperience on Hadrian's part, and inebriation on Bayard's, and though their mouths bumped together like blind moths, they smiled against each other's lips._

_They explored each other's naked bodies, marvelling at the contrast between Hadrian's slender, graceful limbs and Bayard's thick, muscled ones. Even with his glamour raised, the vampire's skin gleamed startlingly pale against the other wizard's tan, golden complexion._

_It was only later, as Bayard slipped out of him and tugged him gently back against his naked chest, that the haze of wine faded, and Hadrian was left acutely aware of everything that had just transpired. Of what had come to pass with_ Bayard _, his best friend. The other wizard wound an arm around Hadrian's waist, traced otiose patterns on the sticky skin of his belly, and Hadrian was glad that he was facing away from the older boy. He saw nothing as he stared straight forward, past the curtains and past the city and past the ephemeral, infelicitous layers of reality, and when he finally fell into a fitful sleep, he didn't dream._

 _The next morning, when a cool summer breeze stirred the diaphanous white curtains, and Hadrian's verdant eyes blinked slowly open, Bayard was pacing the room, soft light dancing off of his bare skin. Hadrian's head throbbed, but it was nothing compared with the dull ache in his lower back, the stabbing pain that shot up his spine in hot, agonizing jolts, as he moved to sit up. Not for the first time, Hadrian wished that he could drop his glamour, so that his vampiric magic would simply_ heal _him._

_Bayard ceased his pacing when he heard the rustling of sheets. Hadrian watched as the wizard's head snapped up, pale eyes frantic as they met Hadrian's._

“ _Gods, Hadrian. I am so,_ so _sorry.” his voice broke, hands clenching into fists at his sides, and Hadrian hauled himself out of bed, willed his countenance to remain impassive as he suppressed a wince at the pain that cut like knives as he walked. He felt grey and weary, as though he weren't completely there, but the distraught expression on his friend's face needed to be tended to, and so Hadrian locked that desolate feeling away deep inside his heart, and approached Bayard._

“ _It's not you're fault,” Hadrian said, feet padding silently across the mosaic floors. “I started it. You did nothing wrong.” Bayard buried his face in his hands._

“ _I did nothing wrong? You're a child, Hadrian, you're a_ boy, _and you're my best friend. I got you drunk and took advantage of you. Your first time should have been special, with someone you loved, and I took that away from you.” the pureblood looked as though he was on the edge of tears, and Hadrian reached up and pulled him into an embrace. Bayard stood stiffly, and the vampire could feel him shaking slightly as he tucked his head under his friend's chin, wrapped his arms around his middle._

“ _It_ was _special,” he said, consoling, “And I might not love you like_ that, _but I do care for you as a friend, and I trust you. I'm glad that you were my first.” The words tasted sour as the stale wine on his tongue, but they had the desired effect. Bayard relaxed against him, finally, and circumspectly wrapped his arms around Hadrian's shoulders._

“ _I'm still sorry,_ mon cher. _” the wizard said quietly, pulling Hadrian tighter against him._

Me too, _thought Hadrian, but he remained silent, rubbing small circles on his friend's back in a heartening caress. What he had said was true: he was glad that his first time had been with Bayard. But that didn't mean he didn't regret it. They stood like that for a long time, holding each other tightly until the city's bells began their chiming and the birds their singing, and at long last they broke apart. Bayard donned yesterday's clothing and left without a word._

_They never spoke of the incident again, neither when they spent time together in the summers nor when they saw each other at the Yuletide Gatherings. If on occasion Bayard's eyes lingered a little too long on Hadrian's lips, if when they kissed 'hello' Bayard pressed a little too close, the vampire pretended not to notice, and their friendship grew stronger yet with the passing years._

_Still, Hadrian didn't drink much alcohol after that, and never again let someone fuck him._

_And as the summer sun rose over Florence, he lay on the cream-coloured duvet and stared at the ceiling, tired and empty and still smelling of sex. He endeavoured to pinpoint the hollowness he felt. It was something intangible—transparent, almost, and difficult to make sense of; it was the quiet, distant sense of something lost._

_._

_~.~_

_._

As a security measure, the location and hosting family for each Gathering were never announced in advance. Those present in certain circles were wont to know the location simply because they were familiar with the hosts or knew someone who was, but the general population remained ignorant of the venue until they arrived, the night of the Gathering, by way of portkey. Sometimes the portkeys themselves would provide some hint as to where it would take place, but more often than not they were something plain and inconspicuous, bearing only the date and time.

Such was the case with the portkeys for this year's Yule Gathering.

They came seven days before the presumed start of the Gathering, arriving on Friday morning just before the majority of Hogwarts' denizens were set to board the Hogwarts Express and return home for the holidays. Tom looked up from his breakfast at the sound of a commotion, eyes narrowing as an immense falcon descended upon the Slytherin table in a confusion of feathers and wings. He knew intuitively that it must be the portkey, for the bird was exotic, unlike anything Tom had ever seen, its light feathers flecked with brown and its pale golden gaze sharp and fierce. In its talons were clutched several small parcels; the portkeys were swathed in vibrant silks of the brightest yellows and deepest violets, and when Tom had carefully extricated his from the bird's claws, the falcon dropped two more packages further down the table before exiting in a flurry of wind, its wings battering the air as if beating it into submission.

When Tom peered down the table, he half expected to see one of the silken parcels in Hadrian's hands, but of course it wasn't so. Hadrian never received mail here; his would be delivered to the owlery soon, if it hadn't been already. No, the two additional portkeys hadn't found their way into the hands of Hadrian Peverell. Alphard Black, one of the few older wizards in his House whose servitude he hadn't yet acquired, was turning one of the packages over carefully in his hands, seeming to admire the intricate embroidery which adorned the silk. Tom's brow creased; he didn't recall seeing the boy at the previous Gathering, but what with so many Dark wizards in one place, he supposed that it would hardly be all that difficult for one to escape his notice. The same seemed to be the case for one Eileen Prince, a witch of whom Tom hadn't previously taken much notice.

Tom observed her as she casually stowed the portkey in a satchel slung across her shoulder, flicking a strand of limp golden hair from her face as she met Tom's gaze, one pale eyebrow raised. Her eyes were a deep black, the pupils indistinguishable from the irises, and their depth gave her otherwise plain face an intriguing, if slightly unsettling, beauty. The girl was in her sixth year, if Tom remembered correctly, and not among his Knights. He met her gaze evenly, and offered a small smile, placing his own portkey in his book bag. He was rather curious to see what it would be this year, but he didn't dare open it so publicly.

He assumed that Hadrian knew the location, what with his wide array of associates. Tom resolved to ask him later.

~.~

By some pleasant trick of fate, Tom and Hadrian were the only Slytherins left at Hogwarts for the holidays, and so that night, instead of betaking themselves to the Room of Requirement, the two settled in the Common Room. Hadrian was reading, his glamour long since doffed and a thick tome propped up against the armrest of one of the Common Room's more comfortable settees. The velvet-upholstered sofa was cushioned heavily, and just the right distance from the fireplace. In the hearth, a great fire crackled merrily, and Tom watched the flames distractedly as he lounged on the settee, his head cradled in Hadrian's lap as the vampire carded long, pale fingers through Tom's dark hair.

Vivid flames danced behind the grate, their lively flickering at odds with the long shadows they cast, trembling, across the stone walls. The hand stroking his hair moved lower, brushing Tom's cheekbone, and the half-blood shifted. He turned his head to look up at Hadrian; the vampire had ceased in his reading, his book laying open but abandoned on the armrest, and now stared into the flames, his gaze bespeaking something faraway. Tom simply beheld him for a while, the arresting green of Hadrian's eyes gone soft in the firelight as the flames bathed his pale skin in gold. Tom reached up to draw his thumb along the vampire's jawline, and Hadrian seemed to return to himself, eyes flicking down to meet Tom's.

“Hey,” he said, his voice soft.

“Hey,” Tom replied, and his lips quirked into a small, unintentional smile. “Do you know where the Gathering will be held this Yule?”

The vampire frowned slightly, his brow creasing even as he leaned into Tom's touch. “No, actually. I haven't heard anything this year, which is rather strange, because I usually know by now. Have you received your portkey yet?”

Tom sat up, silently mourning the loss of Hadrian's warmth against him as he retrieved his book bag from where he'd lain it on the carpet near the fire. He extracted the parcel from that morning and reseated himself beside Hadrian, close enough that their sides were pressed up against each other. It was a small package; it could easily fit in his hand, and was wrapped tightly in vibrant red silk and secured with a ribbon in a matching shade.

“You haven't opened it?” Hadrian asked, tucking his bare feet up under himself and moving to nestle his chin into the junction of Tom's neck and shoulder, peering curiously at the parcel. Tom shook his head, his cheek brushing Hadrian's.

“I take it you haven't retrieved yours?” he asked.

“It's probably still in the owlery; I'll fetch it tomorrow.”

Tom untied the ribbon carefully, and when it fell away he pushed back the scarlet silk with the same heed. He frowned at what the silk revealed.

“What is it?” asked Hadrian as Tom finally succeeded in fully extricating the portkey from its wrappings.

“I think it's...sandstone.” he replied, perplexed. The portkey was a small piece of rock, vaguely reddish in colour, and rough against Tom's fingers. It was engraved with intricate, unfamiliar designs, and the date and time were inscribed in strange, curving letters. Hadrian reached out to touch it, and his pale fingers brushed Tom's slightly darker ones as they rubbed over the characters.

_23:00 (21:00 London), 21 December, 1943_

“Do you have any idea what it means?” asked Tom, turning his head to look at the other wizard. Hadrian shook his head minutely.

“It's probably somewhere in the Middle East, judging by the time difference.”

Tom hummed. He was under the impression that previously, the Gatherings had all been held in Europe. “I suppose that's wise, considering the current state of turmoil in Europe, what with both our war and that of the Muggles.”

“Yes, I suppose,” Hadrian murmured as he pressed a kiss to the side of Tom's neck. The half-blood shivered, warmth spreading through him.

He promised himself that that warmth was only the joy of victory, the sadistic pleasure of knowing that Hadrian was falling utterly into the trap Tom had lain. It was no use, though. His promises had grown thin as his resolve to remain detached from Hadrian, and at some point—between furtive kisses or lingering glances or secret smiles—even that had deliquesced.

Tom let the portkey fall from his fingers, raised his hand to graze the other wizard's cheek. Delicately, he held the vampire's jaw, tilted Hadrian's face up toward his own as he turned his head, their lips meeting in a slow kiss and their magic mingling secretly.

~.~

One week later found Tom perched before the same fireplace, staring into the flames as he waited for Hadrian to emerge from the dormitories. The half-blood was already dressed for the gathering, clad in a simple, elegant pair of deep green dressrobes. This year, the robes weren't transfigured from a simple school pair; Tom had purchased these during his stint as an apothecary's assistant during the summer, and the quality showed. The material was finely woven, falling nearly to the floor when he walked, and he wore them over a pair of black trousers, a white button-down shirt, and a dark green vest which matched his robes.

Tom fidgeted a little, tugging at his tie. They would be leaving for a full two days and nights, and although they had taken great pains to be seen as little as possible within the walls of Hogwarts, he feared that their absence would be missed by one of the professors. Hadrian had assured him that there was virtually no danger of that—no one _cared_ about Julian Pearce, and Tom Riddle was known to be something of a recluse, at times—but still, something nagged Tom. After the incident in the Astronomy tower, Dumbledore had been watching him closer yet, and the half-blood feared that should both he and 'Julian' disappear for _days_ at the same time, the Transfiguration professor would grow suspicious.

Tom was roused from his thoughts by the clearing of a throat.

“Are you ready to go?” Hadrian asked, and the half-blood looked up toward where the corridor that lead to the boys' dormitories entered the Common Room.

Hadrian was dressed nearly all in black, from his trousers to his bow-tie to the dark, dark, robes that seemed to billow slightly as the vampire approached Tom. The only exception to the black was the deep crimson shirt which peeked out from under his robes' lapels.

“Yes,” Tom replied belatedly, casting another appreciative glance in Hadrian's direction. Against the dark fabric of his robes, the vampire looked all the more pale, despite the glamour that made his skin dark enough to look acceptably human.

Tom stood, brushing imaginary wrinkles from his robes, and joined Hadrian at the wall that served as an entrance and exit to and from the Common Room. Before they took their leave, though, Tom cast his best Disillusionment charm, and he watched as Hadrian drew his Invisibility Cloak from within his robes. Tom never ceased to marvel at the thing; Hadrian used it fairly often when he snuck about the castle, and the first time Tom saw it, he had demanded Hadrian let him examine it. The Cloak was far superior to any other of its kind that Tom had ever seen, and at Tom's ceaseless questioning and apparently insatiable interest, Hadrian had revealed its status as a Deathly Hallow.

To say that Tom had been sceptical would be an understatement. It had taken the vampire nearly a week to fully convince him that the story of the Deathly Hallows was indeed true, and even then Tom had scoured both the Hogwarts library and Hadrian's personal one in search of information on the subject. The latter source had proved far more informative than the former, but neither could compare to the wealth of knowledge that Hadrian himself held on the subject.

Hadrian had explained that it was his search for the Deathly Hallows that lead him to Tom the day Tom had created his second (and, unknowingly, his third) Horcrux, and explained that the family ring which Tom even now wore on his finger was none other than the Resurrection Stone.

“ _It's rather odd,”_ the vampire had commented, _“I think that I can sense the Hallows—whenever I'm near your ring, it's as though I can_ hear _it.”_

Tom had changed the subject hurriedly—somehow, he thought the fact that Hadrian could hear his Horcrux might be a side effect of something entirely different. Namely, his being a Horcrux himself.

Tom was shaken from his thoughts by the sensation of Hadrian's fingers curling around his own. It was the easiest way to keep track of each other when they were essentially invisible, considering that both needed to mask their magic while they were inside Hogwarts' walls. Tom thought nothing of any other potential implications as he gave Hadrian's hand a slight squeeze, careful not to jostle the vampire's Invisibility Cloak.

They navigated the Dungeons in silence, keeping a fleet pace until at long last they reached the entrance hall. The doors were locked, of course, but there was a false wall just to their left that, when tapped with a wand, became insubstantial enough to slip through. Tom shivered as the frigid night air met his skin, and again as he lowered his Disillusionment charm. Hadrian removed his cloak, stowing it once more within his robes, and grinned at Tom. His hair was in a state of disarray, as per usual, but Tom said nothing of it, simply returning the grin with a smirk of his own.

“Shall we?” he said, gesturing to the long, snow covered road that stretched out before them, winding its way to Hogsmeade and, consequentially, out of Hogwarts' wards.

“We shall,” Hadrian replied, and the two set off, leaving no footprints behind them as they trod gently along the lane. The vampire's hand was warm in Tom's, and despite the fact that they could now see each other quite clearly, Tom made no move to end the contact.

Neither noticed the cold blue eyes that watched them, their twinkling long since ceased, from the window of the Transfiguration Classroom.

.

~.~

.

The portkey activated at nine o'clock precisely, just as the writing on the stone had stated. They had decided to share a portkey—a matter of convenience, really. When it activated, they were whisked forcibly into that particular non-space between places, and Hadrian realised that they must be travelling quite far, for the spinning seemed to continue on for what felt like full minutes. When they landed, they did so quite harshly, and Hadrian found that Tom had, at some point, latched onto his arm for support.

The pressure on his arm was soon forgotten, however, as Hadrian noticed where they were standing. It definitely wasn't in Europe, of that much the vampire was sure; where he _was,_ he had no idea whatsoever.

He would later learn that the city had been built many millennia previous, before magic had separated into Light and Dark, when the magical and mundane worlds had coexisted in peace, and magic had been used freely. He would later learn that travellers—both magical and muggle—came from far and wide to see the great city of stone, and that the high arches, the buildings cut from the very rock of the mountain, looked like little more than ruins to the eyes of muggles. He would learn later that the muggles stayed out of the city because they thought it cursed, that they would view it from a distance, but dared not venture further into its depths. He would learn later that the city was nocturnal, inhabited only by Dark wizards, and secluded away from the Light population simply because they had forgotten how to find it. During the day, the city was naught but stone—during the night, it came alive with magic and music, with boisterous bazaars and street vendors whose faces were obscured by vivid cloths, eyes glinting as they sold amulets and exotic potions and fairies ensnared in cages of bronze and silver.

Now, though, Hadrian just stood in awe. They seemed to have landed in a great crevasse. The earth was sand beneath their feet, and on either side of them, great rippling stone walls rose like waves turned on their sides, curving and bulging and seeming to undulate high above their heads. Hadrian's eyes were wide, his lips parted slightly. Candles illumed the crevasse, and Tom tugged on his hand, urging him forward. A single glim bobbed before them, its flame burning a bright, unnatural blue, seemingly beckoning them forward. They walked after the light in silence, the only sound the sand shifting with their steps, and after what could have minutes or hours, the walls grew farther apart and the crevasse widened into a great enclosed circle.

Opposite them stood a great building, its facade carved out of the rosy sandstone which constituted the walls, and its gleaming golden gates thrown wide open. Hadrian looked over at his companion, and Tom met his eyes squarely; the vampire could see his own wonder reflected back in them, and the sight of Tom's usually cynical, judging eyes lit with an almost childlike fascination brought a laugh to Hadrian's lips. He squeezed Tom's hand, and together the two wizards climbed the rough stone stairs leading up to the golden doors.

They passed through a short corridor in which the only light was the blue glow from their guiding candle, but when the passage ended, it ended in an onslaught of light and noise. The city beyond what they would later learn were called 'The Great Gates' was _alive._

The redolent aroma of seasoned meat suffused the air as exotic roasts turned on their spits and street vendors called out their wares in some exotic tongue that Hadrian didn't recognise. Fairies flitted about the street, alighting on the tented roofs of the carts and booths which lined the way. Lanterns hung in front of booths that appeared to be advertising some sort of soothsaying service, and witches and wizards, hags and vampires bartered over the costs of spices or unsavoury-looking potions ingredients. Hadrian craned his neck to see the immense buildings that soared high into the sky behind the carts and booths, their sandstone faces seemingly all hewn from the same stone. Music was playing somewhere, and the sounds were alien to Hadrian—it was a lilting tune that seemed to swell and fall with the wind, turning and rippling as they passed down the street, still following the light of their peculiar blue candle.

Finally, they came to the end of the street, and thus to their destination.

The venue for the Gathering was nothing short of a palace. Carved from the same rosy sandstone of the city, the edifice rose to meet the night in a glorious swell of climbing spires and curving domes whose gilded surfaces reflected the light of the thousands of floating, harlequin candles. Even as Hadrian watched, their own blue candle rose to join them, floating higher and higher above their heads until at long last it was lost among the others. The tiny lights floated above the structure as though echoing the stars that blinked down at them from high above the plated domes.

The palace was surrounded by a low, decorative wall broken in the front by a set of glistering gates which the two wizards passed at a sedate pace, continuing on to ascend the gently sloping stairs that lead up the structure's front doors. The inside of the building was as grand as the outside, its high, arching ceilings given depth by the intricate carvings and stained glass which cast multicoloured light coruscating down on the crowd below. And what a crowd it was.

Indeed Hadrian saw many familiar faces floating in the midst of the melee, but a great deal of this Gathering's participants appeared to be witches and wizards from this strange city in which they had found themselves. Women wore sweeping gowns of the brightest silks, their eyes lined darkly with kohl and their faces shrouded with gold-embroidered veils. The men were, for the most part, less extravagant, if no less colourful. Their dress robes were accented with vibrant fabrics and inlaid mirrors, and although Hadrian could here conversation floating across the room in French and English, the predominant idiom of choice seemed to be the foreign, lilting tongue he had heard spoken earlier as the passed through the street.

“Hadrian!” someone called, and the vampire was immediately alert, glancing around in hopes of locating whomever it was that had recognised him.

A hand landed on his shoulder without warning, and Hadrian jerked back from the unexpected contact, unconsciously shifting closer to Tom. In what appeared to be a reflexive gesture, the half-blood raised a hand to grip Hadrian's waist. The vampire turned his head, looking for the person that had been so presumptuous as to touch him without permission. His eyes fell on none other than Bayard Carax, and his carefully blank countenance morphed into a genuine smile as he relaxed.

“Bayard! What a pleasant surprise. It seems as though I haven't seen you in an eternity.” he spoke in English intentionally, not wanting to make Tom feel uncomfortable. Bayard leaned forward, greeting Hadrian with a kiss. The vampire could feel Tom tense beside him, his grip tightening on Hadrian's waist.

Bayard replied, catching on. “Close, but I don't think it's been quite so long. Since last summer's Gathering, I believe. Now, I must admit that I'm curious about your _friend_ here. Won't you introduce me?”

Bayard's eyes darted to where Tom's hand was resting on the vampire's hip, and Hadrian belatedly realised that their hands were still intertwined between them. Tom seemed to notice this at precisely the same moment, for the two lurched apart as if burned. Hadrian cleared his throat, attempting to regain his composure.

“Of course. Bayard, this is Tom Riddle.” the vampire stepped back so that they could shake hands. “Tom, this is Bayard Carax.”

“How do you do?” Tom asked, charming smile in place as he proffered his hand.

“Quite well, thank you. And you?” The cordiality of Bayard's words belied rather harshly by the threatening gleam in his grey eyes. Tom replied with something suitably inoffensive, and they lapsed back into silence.

“So, Tom,” the Frenchman said, and Tom stiffened at the assumed familiar address. “How do you know my Hadrian?”

Hadrian could have groaned as he felt the half-blood's magic spike in irritation.

“We met at last year's Gathering.” Tom said darkly, and Hadrian interrupted before things moved in a direction he wasn't willing for them to go.

“Tom and I are collaborating to start a third side in the war. You know how I feel about Grindelwald, and after what happened to Carina, I can't simply stand by while he conquers Europe. Tom has attracted something of a following in England, and so the two of us have decided to join forces to form an alternative political body.”

Bayard remained silent for a moment, contemplating. “I assume you'll be wanting to spread word of your movement?”

“Of course.” Hadrian replied without hesitation. Bayard nodded thoughtfully.

“I'll do my best to inform any sympathetic parties I come across.” The wizard paused, a pensive frown crossing his features. “Is there somewhere you were planning to meet? So that you could talk to potential recruits?”

Hadrian frowned. “That would probably be a good idea, but I fear I simply don't know this place well enough to suggest anything.”

“There's an extra ballroom off of this one that's usually empty, I believe.” Bayard gestured to a set of metal doors immediately left of the entrance.

“That would be perfect.”

“Great. Shall we say one o'clock?”

Hadrian nodded and thanked his friend. He was just opening his mouth to speak when Tom stole his next words from his lips.

“Say Carax, where exactly _are_ we?”

“They call it _Madeena al-Sakhra_. It means 'city of stone.' No one knows exactly where it is, but I think we're somewhere close to the Dead Sea.”

“I see,” said the half-blood. “ _Madeena._ Is it Arabic they speak here, then?” Hadrian looked over, surprised. Tom lifted a trenchant eyebrow. “I might not be fluent in four languages, but I'm hardly a philistine.”

Hadrian chuckled, and Bayard frowned. “I suppose I'll be going, then.” said the Frenchman. “Hadrian, could I please borrow you for a moment? I need to speak with you alone.”

In his peripheral vision, Hadrian could see a muscle in Tom's jaw twitch. But there was nothing to be done for it.

“Of course, Bayard.” He cast an apologetic look in Tom's direction, but the half-blood didn't meet his eyes. “I'll not be long.”

“Take your time,” said Tom, his tone perfectly urbane and impersonal. “I've just spotted someone I've been meaning to talk to.” the half-blood was gone before Hadrian could say anything more, absorbed into the crowd thoroughly and completely.

He turned back to Bayard, sighing. “Must you always antagonise my friends?” he asked, only half in jest.

“He looked like rather more than a friend,” Bayard said suggestively, raising an eyebrow. Hadrian pretended that he didn't see the jealousy in his friend's eyes.

“I already told you that he's my friend. Do you doubt my word?” he disliked lying, truly, but still the words rolled smoothly off his tongue.

“I only doubt your word when it's false.” said Bayard, “You used to tell me everything. What's changed?”

“Nothing's changed.”

“I don't believe you.”

Hadrian sighed. “What concern is it of yours, anyway?”

“I'm simply worried about you, Hadrian. Your last romantic venture failed rather spectacularly, after all, and I would hate for this to be a repeat of that.”

Hadrian bristled. “First of all, Nott wasn't a _romantic venture._ He was never meant to be anything more than sex, and secondly, Tom is _nothing_ like him.”

“Rather protective of him for _just a friend_ , aren't you?”

Hadrian snorted, but said nothing. When it became clear that he wasn't going to reply, Bayard continued with his speech.

“I don't like him. He seems manipulative.”

“Everyone's manipulative.”

“Not like that, Hadrian.” the wizard sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I just want to make sure that this is what you want.”

“It is.”

“Fine, fine. But if anything ever happens, if you ever need to get away from him for _any reason_ , just know that my door is always open. If you need somewhere to go—I don't care if it's because of Grindelwald or anyone else—you have my address.”

Hadrian resisted pinching the bridge of his nose; he had an awful headache.

“Thanks, Bayard. I will.”

~.~

Tom slipped into the extra ballroom a few minutes before one o'clock. The long, dim room was illuminated only by the torches fastened along the walls, and the great chandelier which hung from the ceiling was unlit. It appeared that Hadrian's unfortunate acquaintance had made good on his word (however much it irked Tom to admit it), for a group of what looked like approximately two hundred witches and wizards had gathered, only some of whom Tom recognised. The rest were strangers. They had been trickling into the room steadily in the minutes before the hour, and so Tom's entrance went unnoticed by the majority of those gathered. He saw no sign of Hadrian, but Tom was sure that the vampire must already be here—it would be unlike him to enter a situation without first covertly observing. And so Tom made his way to the corner of the room farthest from the door, squinting as he tried to see past the shadows that were gathered, suspiciously opaque, in the corner.

His intuition was proven eerily accurate when, in a motion not unlike that of a striking viper, a hand darted out of the shadows to grasp Tom's arm. The half-blood nearly sniggered as he was pulled into the shadows, but the sound caught in his throat as Hadrian pulled him closely against the firm line of his chest.

“Lurking about as usual, I see,” Tom commented, his voice low.

“I like to think of it as surveillance.” the vampire's reply was hardly above a whisper.

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, the half-blood could see Hadrian reach into his pocket to withdraw his watch, checking the hour.

“Is it time?” Tom asked.

“It is. Are you ready?”

Tom swallowed his nerves. This would be a true test; these witches and wizards weren't gullible, easily-intimidated Hogwarts students; they were powerful and Dark and politically perspicacious. Tom relished the challenge presented. _Was he ready?_

“Yes, I'm ready.” he replied. _I was born ready._ As if sensing his thoughts, Hadrian chuckled. Tom felt a pair of lips brush against his own.

“Let's go,” Hadrian whispered before stepping away. The half-blood smoothed his robes and composed himself.

Out in the main ballroom, the clock struck one. Together, the two wizards stepped out from the shadows, releasing the shields concealing their magic. Even those witches and wizards who weren't magically sensitive turned to face them at the onslaught of their combined magic, and as they became aware of the two wizards' presence, the quiet colloquy in the room dwindled into silence.

Once it was clear that every eye was focused upon them, Hadrian began to speak. Although the temptation to look over at the vampire was great, Tom kept his gaze trained forward, scanning the faces gathered in the small ballroom.

“I stand before you tonight to speak the truth,” Hadrian began, “And the truth is that there is something horrible at work within our society.” his words rang in the silence, heavy with conviction.

“For as long as I can remember, I have lived in fear.” The words echoed slightly off the smooth stone walls. “I have lived in constant terror that I will be discovered to be a Dark wizard, that I will be locked away for something over which I have no control. I have practiced my magic privately, covertly, hidden by layers of wards and by cover of night. I have kept secret my traditions and my heritage, my blood and even my very identity, for fear of the Dark Lord's wrath.

“No longer.

“I refuse to remain silent while Grindelwald kills hundreds of thousands of innocent Light wizards, people who might, if given the chance, be willing to live alongside us in peace. I refuse to lie down, to bend my neck to a man who cares only to rule the world, a man with no regard for the lives lost in his awful war, a man who would without a second thought kill every witch and wizard with Creature or Muggle blood. I will not stand by in silence as the Dark Lord grows stronger by the day, as countries fall at his feet even as I speak. I demand justice, an end to intolerance and oppression. I demand the freedom to celebrate my Dark heritage, but I demand this justice without calling for the demise of Light magic.

“It is easy to turn to Grindelwald; he promises you freedom, superiority, safety for you and yours, and all he asks in return is that you look away while he slaughters mercilessly, that you follow him blindly. But he is destroying our community, splitting apart the very seams of magic and of our rights as people. It is not meant to be this way. Once, Light and Dark magic coexisted peacefully; I declare that the same can be true in our time. A change will be neither rapid nor painless, and I surmise that it will be as bloody as it is necessary. 

“If you choose to join us, you will oppose not only Light wizards, not only the followers of the Dark Lord. You will oppose the very fabric of our society, the strict dichotomy between Light and Dark that upholds our governments, the division upon which our lives are based. We face an enemy whose numbers are greater than ours, whose power stretches to reach many, and whose roots have already grown deep into the Ministries of Europe, into the depths of our very minds. This revolution must not be fought only with wands and curses; it must be fought with all the power of our hearts and minds, with words and ideas and with every ounce of conviction harboured within our very souls.

“Remember that above all else, we fight for something worth fighting for. We fight for the right to be judged based not on the nature of our Magic or our blood, but on our words, our actions, our character. We fight for a world in which our children will live free from fear of persecution, able to practice their magic—be it Dark or Light—openly, where schools teach the Dark Arts alongside Light Arts, where defence is not targeted at a specific strain of magic.

“You may not be interested in war—I myself have no interest in conflict; but the truth is that it doesn't matter whether or not you are interested in war—war is interested in you! The outcome of this war will affect each and every witch and wizard regardless of whether or not they are interested in it. And so, if you care for your friends, your family, your children, it is your duty to fight. The blanket of tyranny is settling over us, and it is our responsibility to resist. We fight not for ourselves and our freedom, but for everyone, for ultimate liberty and delivery from oppression. If the war continues on the way it is going, we will destroy magic in its entirety. It is for this reason that we must create a new force, one that fights for the good of magic itself. We _must_ fight, because some things are worth protecting, and magic is one of them.

“And so I ask you, my fellow practitioners of magic, to join us in the defence of our traditions, our heritage, our magic, and our right to a better future. Join us not because you seek freedom for one man, but because you seek freedom for every man, woman, and child that will wield magic from this day forward. Join us, and together we will show the world that magic isn't something to be forgotten, to be laid aside without regard. We will show them that magic will prevail!”

Silence rang in the wake of Hadrian's speech. The crowd was vibrating with excitement.

“You have my wand!” called a young wizard with blazing red hair and freckles, thrusting his wand into the air, tip lighted.

“And mine!” someone echoed farther off.

Soon, the room was lost in a cacophony of shouts of support, and the darkness faded as more witches and wizards raised their wands.

In the glow, Hadrian's green eyes shone like emeralds, and Tom simply stared at the vampire, at the fire in his eyes and the way the air around him stirred with a magic wind, at his chest rising and falling rapidly as he recovered his breath.

And as the shouts of support turned to cheers, and Hadrian held himself proudly, surely, before the roaring throng, Tom could see that the world they stood in was Hadrian's. That he belonged to it just as it belonged to him. The politics. The people. The subterfuge and manipulation. The revolution. He moved so easily through it, and as Tom watched him, he at last understood the quality of Hadrian's beauty; how this world had shaped him, how the lies he had forged had in turn forged him; that every harsh moment of the vampire's life was culminating here, now, before Tom's very eyes. This world had left its stamp on Hadrian, in his shadowed gaze and his supple grace, and in the arresting strength that Tom was finally beginning to understand.

~.~

Later, the two wizards stood side by side on the balcony that opened off of Hadrian's room, looking out into the moonless night. Tom had a room of his own—it was the next one over—but they had been in the midst of conversation when they left the meeting, and had wandered in here together. The room was on the side of the palace that looked away from the rest of the city, and beyond them, the naked desert seemed to stretch on forever. Against the sand, the night was black velvet, and the wind sang as it spun in the imponderable sky. The balcony was carved from the same sandstone as the rest of the palace, the rest of the city, and only a gilded railing separated them from the darkness.

“It's really happening now, isn't it?” Hadrian's voice was like the night, quiet and starlit. Tom looked over at him, smiled a little; the surreality of the past few hours still lingered in the spark of Hadrian's virescent gaze, in the pale glow of his skin in the starlight.

“All because of you,” he replied, and it was true; Hadrian's speech had—well, Tom had been impressed.

“Because of _us_ ,” the vampire corrected, turning to face him and taking hold of Tom's hand. The half-blood blinked in surprise, his breath catching.

It was as though a certain something had somehow managed to work its way through the armour he had built up around himself, and was now attempting to fill a great void inside him. The empty space wasn't one Hadrian had made. It had always been there within him; the vampire just made him desperately aware of it. Tom gripped Hadrian's hand tightly and turned toward him, finding that there was something serious in the depths of his eyes, something telling Tom that whatever he did next would be _significant._ He leaned forward slowly, carefully, giving Hadrian ample time to withdraw, but the vampire didn't move, seemingly waiting to see what Tom would do.

 _This is the perfect opportunity,_ he told himself. _He's vulnerable now; he trusts me._

And yet as their lips met, the half-blood couldn't quite bring himself to plot Hadrian's demise. Something was changing deep within him, trembling with the longing to exist, and as he looped his arms around the vampire's shoulders, snaking a hand into the other boy's hair, he could feel that something swelling in his chest as though fighting to escape. The vampire's tongue ran along the seam of his mouth, and Tom parted his lips willingly. Hadrian's arms wound around his waist, and Tom reciprocated by pushing him up against the golden railing as they explored each other's mouths with slow, thorough swipes of tongues against teeth and lips.

Hadrian tasted of wind and magic, of tea and spices, and Tom drank him in even as his fingers moved to the clasp of the vampire's robes.

“May I?” he asked against the other wizard's lips, his voice trembling as he fumbled with the silver catch. The vampire's hands came up to help him, to undo his robes with hands steadier than Tom's.

“Yes,” he murmured, laying a hand on half-blood's cheek. Hadrian kissed him, deep and desperate, his lips achingly real on Tom's as the vampire laid the length of his body against him. “Of course,”

The Slytherin heir kissed him back, forceful, and resumed his efforts.

Soon, the black fabric lay pooled on the ground, and Tom set to work undoing the buttons of Hadrian's shirt. He kissed the vampire's pale shoulders, covered the newly revealed skin with his lips and hands and also with his magic. The wizard shivered, gasped as Tom's fingers ghosted over his ribs, and the half-blood ran his hands down the vampire's back, marvelling at the lithe muscles that shifted under his touch. Tom's hands shook as he undid the other wizard's trousers, as he slowly, deliberately slid the fabric over Hadrian's narrow hips.

When at last the vampire stood bare before him, Tom drew back. Hadrian was all long limbs and jutting angles, milky skin and dark curls; Tom touched him softly, reverently, smoothing over quivering muscle and flesh and _Hadrian._ The vampire's pupils were dilated, nearly overtaking the green of his irises, and his cheeks were flushed. His lips were red, swollen from kissing, and Tom couldn't resist drawing Hadrian's mouth up to meet his own once more, tasting the magic that rolled between their tongues.

So focused was Tom on the slide of their magic, on the velvet skin beneath his hands, that he hardly noticed as Hadrian undid his robes, his buttons, undressed him deftly and swiftly. Only when the cold air reached his naked skin did he finally break the kiss, drawing Hadrian close against him. The wizard's skin was hot against his own, and yet a chill swept over him. His heart hammered in his chest, and he realised belatedly that he was shivering. Partly with cold, partly with terror, partly with burning desire. He drew in a shaking breath, and Hadrian held him close, kissing his nose and cheeks and eyes until the shivers subsided and Tom melted into his embrace. Around them, their magic danced, turning the darkness to elaborate shadow and giving Tom permission to surrender utterly to this fragile thing that had come to exist between them.

They stumbled back through the wide doors to the balcony, lips never parting, and when they reached the bed, Tom pushed the other wizard gently back against the colourful silk, covering Hadrian's body with his own. He kissed down the vampire's chest, swirling his tongue across the ivory skin of Hadrian's chest and abdomen and dipping into the his navel. The wizard moaned, hands finding purchase in Tom's hair as he tugged the half-blood up into a kiss.

“I want you inside me,” Hadrian spoke into his mouth, and Tom shuddered, burying his face in the vampire's neck.

“Are you sure?” he forced himself to ask, even as his hands drifted lower, stroking along the insides of Hadrian's slender thighs.

“I've never been more sure of anything in my life,” The vampire breathed, and although the statement seemed outrageous, Tom could hear nothing but truth ringing in Hadrian's soft tenor.

Wandlessly, the half-blood cast a spell to slick his fingers, and, eyes never leaving Hadrian's, pressed a long, slender forefinger into the unbearable heat that was Hadrian Peverell. The vampire's head fell back against the silken pillows, and he moaned lowly in his throat.

“Keep going,” he urged, and, groaning at the tightness surrounding him, Tom inserted a second finger.

“You must tell me if this hurts,” he said as Hadrian tensed slightly at the invasion, but the vampire shook his head, hooded eyelids opening to reveal eyes blown wide with lust.

“It doesn't—I'm ready,” the wizard said in reply, and when Tom's fingers slipped out of him, Hadrian sat up, pushing the half-blood down into the silks instead. The Slytherin heir frowned slightly in confusion, but bewilderment soon turned to arousal as Hadrian straddled his hips, leaning down to press one last kiss to Tom's lips before gripping the half-blood firmly and guiding him into his body.

Tom cried out at the inundation of sensation, hands fisting in the silken bedding as Hadrian sunk onto him, taking him in completely. Behind the vampire, the stars shone like beacons in the night, silently echoing the beautiful ache that pervaded Tom's heart. It was as though he had never before seen the sky.

.

~.~

.

Magic wrapped around them tightly, cocooning them in lustrous threads of power. Hadrian relished the sharp burn of Tom inside him, the almost unbearable stretch that meant they were joined in the most intimate of ways. His body adjusted quickly, though, and soon the pain faded as the two moved in perfect congruity, their magic twining together as closely as their bodies, and in turn, their hearts. Hadrian could feel the echo of the other wizard's passion through his magic, could feel slick warmth enveloping him even as Tom thrust up into him, striking that place deep inside him that made Hadrian's breath catch and his back arch in pleasure. Tom was glorious, glistening below him like a river in spate, and Hadrian sailed on his waters, Tom moving deeper and deeper inside of him until at last, with a sobbing, shuddering shout, Hadrian drowned.

The Slytherin heir, not yet spent, flipped them so that Hadrian lay across the bed, legs wrapped 'round Tom's waist as the half-blood thrust deeper than he could have managed in their previous posture. The vampire moaned, oversensitive, even as the world around him still trembled in the wake of his passion.

“Look at me,” Hadrian demanded, and Tom did—their eyes met, and the vampire was overwhelmed by the sentiment that swirled in the crimson depths of the half-blood's gaze. And then Tom was coming, his body gone taught as a bowstring, and Hadrian could feel the wizard's release burning deep within him as he quivered through the aftershocks. Tom slipped out of him gently, collapsing beside him on the silken bedclothes, and when the half-blood pulled him close against him, Hadrian went willingly, brushing the damp hair from Tom's dark eyes. The wizard leaned in, captured Hadrian's lips in a lazy, sated kiss, and the vampire wanted to cry and laugh at once.

In that moment, Hadrian was alive. He was gloriously, impossibly alive, and the world might crash and burn, and he might die at the Dark Lord's hand, and maybe this war was doomed to fail, but there was no possible way that Tom could have feigned the look in his eyes, and so nothing else mattered.

He grasped Tom’s hand, pressed it firmly to his chest, to the pale skin above his heart, and knew when the other wizard’s eyes widened that Tom had taken the silent declaration for what it was. And when a smile broke across Tom’s face, bright and ecstatic and more beautiful than anything Hadrian had ever seen, he laughed breathlessly and pulled the other boy into a kiss. They smiled against each other’s lips, whispered sweet nothings and secrets and promises, and it was the kind of kiss that made Hadrian realise that he’d never in his life been so happy as he was now, with Tom wrapped in his arms and he in Tom’s. In that moment, Hadrian swore they were infinite.

And in Tom's arms he found something good, something worth fighting for; there he found love, something so great that in that hour, he believed that no darkness could endure forever.

The night was full of stars as it was of dreams; the tiny lights shivered blue in the distance, far out of reach. Two boys basked in their glow, drunk with the possibilities written in the great starry void.


	20. Invaluable Things

 

**Invaluable Things**

.

~.~

.

" _In a perfect world, you could fuck people without giving them a piece of your heart. And every glittering kiss and every touch of flesh is another shard of heart you'll never see again."_

~Neil Gaiman,  _Fragile Things_

.

~.~

.

Christmas morning dawned cold and white. The Room of Requirement had settled into something between a library and a bedroom; bookshelves rose to meet the plastered ceiling, row upon row of leather spines towering high above the large bay windows which looked out upon the Hogwarts grounds. The room was alight with the sun's first rays. Although the sun had barely risen, the snow-covered hills reflected dawn's light with a brilliance that could only be afforded by newly fallen snow. In the midst of the room's multitudinous bookshelves was situated a large, oaken bed whose occupants appeared to be soundly asleep.

Despite the fire which burned softly within the nearby hearth, a chill lingered in the air.

Tom burrowed deeper into the bed's downy quilts, instinctively grasping at the warm body sprawled above him. Their legs were entangled, and Hadrian lay half on top of him, his face buried in the crook of Tom's neck. The half-blood turned his head slightly, breathed in the vampire's unique, earthy scent; it lingered, intoxicating, in Hadrian's wayward hair. One of Tom's arms was wrapped securely around his waist, but as he came to his senses, the half-blood stiffened, forced himself to withdraw somewhat from the intimate—if unintentional—embrace.

His eyes blinked slowly open, and Tom stared, fascinated, at Hadrian's sleeping figure, at the unruly strands of his inky hair; it was ethereal, almost, how it contrasted so sharply with the white of the sheets. It had been three days since the first time he awoke like this (limbs entwined with Hadrian's, the scent of their coupling still lingering on his skin), and yet Tom found that even after this time, waking felt unfamiliar, unsettling.

More than anything, Tom wanted to press closer to the vampire, to melt into his warmth, to give in and let himself be consumed by the tenderness present in Hadrian's unconscious touches and the small, hardly perceptible noises he made in his sleep. He wanted to experience Hadrian as he was unguarded, experience his vulnerability and emotion as he didn't let himself experience his own.

And yet even after three days, waking like this, with the warmth of another soul pressed close against him, unnerved Tom—most of all, for the vulnerability of being unguarded in the presence of another. For the life of him, Tom couldn't recall the last person to have watched him while he slept. He controlled his circadian rhythm absolutely, had since he was a child living in the orphanage, and so Tom knew that he had always,  _always,_ been the last to sleep and the first to wake. The hours in which he slept, in which he lowered his guard so thoroughly, were sacrosanct.

That first night, falling into bed with Hadrian had been a thoughtless, instinctive act done in the heat of the moment. Even now, Tom was at a loss to explain to himself what had possessed him, what  _continued_ to possess him to trust the vampire so explicitly. There was so much he could reveal in such a vulnerable state—more than he was willing to divulge to Hadrianin spite of their shared intimacy. Hadrian knew more about him than any other, knew his strengths and weaknesses, and had glimpsed his shortcomings, and yet still Tom was  _afraid._

He knew, with a certainty that sat cold and heavy in his heart, that if Hadrian truly knew him,knew the extent of his solipsism and his cruelty, he would hate him. That certainty inspired an entirely different fear to swell in Tom's chest, a fear that he couldn't adequately compartmentalise and shut away deep within himself. Hadrian had gained his trust so quickly, and had just as easily wedged himself into Tom's heart in such a way that Tom thought, in a rare moment of sentimentality, that should the vampire abandon him, should he shrink away in disgust at Tom's truest self, he would be unable to continue functioning.

And the worst part was that Hadrian trusted him unconditionally even as his confidence was unrequited. Tom suspected that perhaps the vampire knew this, deep down, and the thought that Hadrian was willing to live like this made bile rise in Tom's throat. Because he  _wanted_ to trust Hadrian. He wanted to share his secrets, his hopes and dreams and fears so that perhaps they wouldn't smother him so, but part of him was unwilling to do such a thing to Hadrian. If he knew that he was Tom's Horcrux, he would believe that all of this—the warmth and the fellowship—was feigned.

Tom only wished that it was.

Because he was selfish, and didn't want to be alone again.

And so in moments like this, with Hadrian's magic pulsing lazily against him, his body wrapped around Tom's even as he began to stir with the first signs of wakefulness, Tom knew what it was to experience terror, acute and irrational, and to simultaneously wish to bare himself completely to this impossible man who had unwittingly and inadvertently become  _everything_ to him.

Tom knew that adversity begat strength, knew it deep in his bones from personal experience, and yet the more he learned of Hadrian, the less he understood; his strength was so different from Tom's, so bright and good despite the horrors that had followed him, inevitably, from the day of his birth. For all his posturing, Hadrian was humble, modest even. He didn't seek fame or glory, didn't wish to defeat Grindelwald for personal gain; no, the vampire was proceeding as he was out of honest good will, because his scruples wouldn't allow him to stand by idly while he had the power to help.

Such moral integrity was alien to Tom. The half-blood was, ultimately, in this war because he had nothing to lose and much to gain; if Grindelwald fell, someone would take his place—while Hadrian had no such desire for power, Tom had every intention of leading the wizarding world; it had been Tom's primary ambition since he was old enough to understand his own superiority.

Contrastingly, Hadrian wanted nothing from this war but freedom for his people with as few deaths as possible. Sometimes, as they worked late into the night, revising strategies and reviewing losses, Tom would look at the shadows beneath the vampire's weary eyes, at the scar of Tom's own making which cut deeper than even Hadrian knew, and he would think himself undeserving.

Whatever existed between them, whatever tenderness or compassion or, God forbid, love, was  _warped._

And there it was: the truth that made Tom quake with terror truer and more frightening than anything he had ever experienced, even as warmth swelled within him. Because he loved Hadrian; he loved him secretly, as certain dark things are to be loved, more than he should love anything. His love wasn't pure; it was sickened and polluted by desperation, by fear and selfishness and the ever looming threat of death, but although Tom was lost he was not alone: they were lost together, adrift in the midst of an endless ocean.

Hadrian standing firm against the tide, and he unworthy of such simplicity.

 

~.~

Hadrian shifted, then, and Tom forced his doubts into the deepest recesses of his mind, locking them away behind layers upon layers of shields—sometimes, Tom thought Legimency was more useful for hiding things from himself than from other people.

And despite everything, Tom was happy—happier than he'd been in—well, ever.

Hadrian was a warm, solid weight on his chest, and Tom kissed slowly along the curve of his neck, nipping gently at the pale column of his throat. The vampire buried his face further in Tom's shoulder, moaning softly. At the sound, Tom felt himself harden against Hadrian's hip.

 _Yes_ , he thought,  _we're going to be okay. We have to be okay._

With a low growl deep in his throat, the half-blood rolled them over so that he lay atop Hadrian, one of his hands pinning the vampire's wrists above his head. Below him, the Peverell heir made a quiet, startled noise, still half asleep. His eyelids were clamped closed against the morning light (Tom had the irrational impulse to reach out and touch the fine creases the expression created at the corners of his eyes), but Tom could feel the vampire's magic stirring, awakening as he teased it with his own. Deftly, the half-blood dipped his head to capture Hadrian's lips. The vampire's mouth was pliant with somnolence, and yielded easily to the demands of Tom's tongue. He caught a plump lip between his teeth, biting down gently even as he rolled his hips against Hadrian's.

This seemed to seize the other boy's attention, for now Hadrian began to respond, his eyes fluttering open as he arched up into Tom's touch, small noises escaping his occupied lips. With his free hand, Tom moved to run a hand up the vampire's side. Hadrian's breath caught, and soon laughter was bubbling from Hadrian's lips, softly at first, but rising in a crescendo until at last the vampire dissolved into the expression of unbridled joviality, squirming under Tom and cursing him with a rather impressive array of expletives.

This was one of the most rewarding discoveries Tom had made in the past three days: Hadrian was  _ticklish._ And seeing him like this—intemperate and unrestrained, if only for a moment—was something of which Tom was sure he would never grow weary.

"Stop it—you  _absolute wanker_ , Tom, I swear—" Hadrian burst into unwilling hysterics once more, unable to restrain himself as Tom ruthlessly attacked the sensitive skin of his sides. "— _never having sex with you again_ , you—you—"

Tom cut off the rest of his philippic with a kiss, releasing the vampire's hands and ceasing his ministrations even as Hadrian's bare chest still trembled with laughter. The vampire was so lovely like this—hair in disarray, pale skin flushed, full lips stretched in a smile that would have been innocent if it weren't for the things Tom knew those lips to be capable of _—_ and something swelled in Tom's chest, rising like the tide until he was sure his shores would overflow. He pressed one last kiss to the corner of the vampire's bruised mouth before rolling off of him and collapsing into the sheets, chest heaving, a grin stretching across his face.

"Happy Christmas," he said, breathless, turning to observe the light dancing off of Hadrian's blushing skin.

"You're incorrigible," the vampire replied, his breathing still irregular, but his tone was fond, and when his gaze swivelled to meet Tom's, his eyes were brimming with mirth. He sighed, and Tom watched, fascinated, as the muscles in his torso stretched to accommodate the action. "Happy Christmas to you too, though, I suppose."

Tom propped himself up on his elbow, affecting a solemn, somber expression. He could tell the exact moment Hadrian registered the apparent change in his mood, for the vampire's countenance grew grave.

"What is it?" Hadrian asked, a small crease appearing between his dark brows.

"It's just that…" Tom swallowed, clearing his throat to stave off the laughter that was attempting to escape the confines of his breast. Hadrian was looking increasingly concerned. "Well, you weren't serious about denying me sex, were you?"

Hadrian snorted, yanking the pillow out from under Tom's head and proceeding to thump him soundly on the head with it. "I should, for that." he said, chuckling as he allowed Tom to pry the pillow from his grasp and pull him back into the half-blood's arms.

 _This,_ Tom reflected,  _is how I want to wake up every morning. Always._

He didn't want to imagine a future in which he didn't wake up with arms full of Hadrian, in which his mornings didn't start with breathless laughter and even more breathless kisses. For all the years Tom had spent building his independence, making sure he was not reliant on anyone but himself, he was beginning to  _need_ Hadrian. It was unthinkable, unforgivable, foolish.

And yet.

And yet he was Tom Marvolo Riddle, and he did nothing by halves.

"Hadrian," he murmured, inquisitive, as the vampire nuzzled his cheek gently. His hand was resting hesitantly on the other boy's shoulder.

"Hmm?" Tom stroked slow circles onto Hadrian's skin, the black stone of the Gaunt ring glinting in the light.

"I have something for you." Hadrian pulled away slightly, propping himself up on one arm so that he could look into Tom's eyes, but saying nothing. "For Christmas," Tom clarified, and hoped beyond all hopes that Hadrian wouldn't be offended by his celebration of the Muggle holiday—some pure-bloods were.

His worries were unfounded.

"I also have something for you," said the vampire slowly, his voice still thick with sleep. Tom swallowed, but tried not to appear too nervous. He sat up, crossing his legs, and Hadrian mirrored his position. The half-blood tugged the blankets up around their naked shoulders to conserve warmth, crafting a soft cocoon around them.

Slowly, deliberately, Tom took Hadrian's hands in his own. He wanted to say something, anything, but his mouth merely opened and closed, wallowing in an implacable search for words yet unformed.

Wordlessly, Tom slipped the Gaunt ring from his finger. Hadrian's eyes widened, flicking from Tom to the ring and back again.

"Tom, that's a Horcrux."

Tom raised an eyebrow. "I am aware of the fact, amazingly." he drawled, his flippancy at odds with the situation. It was a piece of him, and the half-blood wanted Hadrian to have it. It fit, somehow. "It's also a Deathly Hallow, and I know how much you want to collect all three."

"I…" the vampire swallowed visibly, and his fingers trembled ever so slightly as Tom slipped the Hallow onto the slender fourth finger of Hadrian's left hand. The vampire's brow creased. "You do know what it means, don't you? For the Muggles, that particular placement of a ring signifies—"

"—I know what it signifies. And I want you to have it."

Tom could see a smile tugging at the corners of Hadrian's lips, but apparently the vampire was intent on being as stubborn as possible, as was his wont. "Tom, if something were to happen to me…well, it's a  _piece of your soul,_ and I don't want to be responsible for its destruction."

"Hadrian." he said, and  _oh, if only he knew,_ "If something were to happen to you, a Horcrux would be the least of my concerns." As soon as the words left his lips, Tom regretted them. He cursed himself for uttering it aloud. He wanted to somehow dismiss what he'd said, to make light of it and paint it as a misunderstanding, but no words came to his lips.

His mind refused to interfere with the words spoken by his heart.

But then Hadrian was kissing him, and Tom thought that perhaps it hadn't been so execrable of a faux pas, if it elicited such a response.

"Hey," Hadrian said, subdued, against his lips, "Thank you.  _Thank you."_ Tom smiled a little, content to continue with their activities. He pushed against Hadrian's chest, sucking on his plump lower lip, but the vampire pulled away, grinning.

"I still have something to give you, remember?" And yes, alright, that sounded lovely, but could it not wait until after a round or two of morning sex? Tom sighed, but obediently settled back into a seated position. Hadrian had grown serious once more, the lightheartedness seeping from his eyes until the stare Tom was fixed with was a sober, considering one. "First, though, I have to explain something about myself."

Tom nodded his understanding, intrigued. "Of course. Whatever you need to do."

The vampire's chest rose and fell as he inhaled deeply. "I've explained the basic premise of these, haven't I?" he asked, gesturing to the silver bracelets adorning his left wrist. His and his deceased mother's.

"They act as portkeys, and also give you some sort of indication as to when the person to whom they belonged to originally…dies." Hadrian winced a little, tracing over the bracelet that sat lower on his wrist. It was darker in colour, Tom noticed; tarnished.

"Correct," he said, and, continuing: "The portkey can be activated through any wards, from any distance," Tom's eyebrows rose exponentially. Such power was nigh on unheard of. "It's connected directly to the original bearer's magic, and so when that person in dying, the person in possession of it can feel the magic draining away."

Tom studied the two bracelets. The tarnished one, then, would have belonged to Hadrian's mother. It was wider than the other—Hadrian's—and more ornate. Hadrian's shone a bright silver, decorated only with a series of small geometric markings.

"It serves other purposes as well, but I'm afraid I don't know if any will function with you; you see, Tom, I'm nearly certain that a human has never been the recipient of a born vampire's bracelet, so this is—uncharted territory, as it were."

Hadrian was blushing slightly, Tom noticed, and although the flush was indubitably becoming, the half-blood couldn't help but wonder what had provoked such a reaction. Was there something more, something that the vampire was keeping from him? Before he could ask, however, Hadrian was taking his left hand in his, and Tom was distracted by the feel of the warm flesh and the gleam of the Horcrux against pale skin—it made something dark, something possessive and yet giddy, curl in his chest.

"Once I do this, I'm doubtful that you'll be able to remove it." the vampire's tone was unruffled, confident, and yet Tom could hear the question behind his words, read the uncertainty in his verdant gaze.

"I'll wear it always," he assured, "Proudly."

It must have been the right response—a furtive smile curled Hadrian's lips, and then he was slipping the bracelet over his hand to settle it on Tom's wrist; it was still warm, and the half-blood could feel Hadrian's magic mingling with his own, fused to his skin for eternity.

"I truly appreciate—"

Hadrian cut him off, though, tongue slipping into his mouth and body slotting against his own, and neither Tom nor the vampire spoke again for quite some time.

 

~.~

On the night of Tom's birthday, Hadrian gave him a golden pocket watch. When he rose a questioning eyebrow, the vampire blushed.

"I know that it's supposed to be for your seventeenth, and you're eighteen, but it's tradition, and I thought that, well, better late than never, right?"

Tom kissed him until they were both breathless.

 

.

~.~

.

In the following weeks, the Resistance made more progress than most would have thought possible in such a short amount of time. They worked quickly and competently, as only a small army of desperate Dark witches and wizards (and a McGonagall) could, and so by the time classes resumed at Hogwarts, their efforts had borne fruit in the form of rather impeccable organization, an alliance with the Goblins, and a place to call their headquarters.

It had taken a considerable amount of time and magic to repair, but the abandoned building which had once served as a warehouse for  _Madam Malkin's Robes For All Occasions_  had now been transformed into a satisfactorily functional command post. The Resistance numbered over two hundred now, and so while they were no where near the numbers of Grindelwald's army, headquarters was generally bustling with people exiting and entering, relieving their comrades from their posts—those willing had been given the specific tasks of intercepting mail to and from the Ministry and Grindelwald, monitoring Firecalls, and generally offering covert interference with official martial matters.

A large fireplace had been constructed at one end of the warehouse—it stood well over eight feet high, and was at least as wide—and illegally connected to the Floo network. There, five people could work at monitoring Firecalls at once, and Floo travel was as efficient as it they could hope for it to be, given the grim circumstances.

And the circumstances were grim indeed.

Three days after Christmas, Grindelwald had invaded Italy. The Italian Ministry had surrendered two weeks after the first raid took place, having already suffered crippling losses to their armed forces and equally crippling blows to their morale. Grindelwald was moving West, and by mid January, he had launched his first attach on France. Luckily, the French Ministry was one of the strongest in Europe, and their Aurors met Grindelwald's forces with a great deal of tenacity. In fact, with the aide of the Resistance's French faction, France had managed to stall Grindelwald's advance almost completely.

 _Perhaps,_  Hadrian thought (weary but satisfied as he returned from successful battles in France),  _the tides have turned._

And so it was with no small amount of shock that Hadrian awoke the night of the twenty-fifth of January, waking Tom as he sprang from bed, to the news that Grindelwald was raiding Hogsmeade.

 

~.~

The premise of the alert was simple. It had been Minerva's idea, to no one's surprise: golden coins, enchanted to look nearly identical to Galleons, displayed the location of the attack, and heated to a nearly unbearable temperature in case of emergencies. Members of the Resistance were stationed in major cities all over Europe, and so the moment anyone became aware of an attack, they would simply enchant their coin to display the correct location, and every other member of the Resistance would be notified immediately.

When Hadrian and Tom arrived in Hogsmeade, Headquarters was, understandably, in a state of chaos. Witches and wizards bustled through the warehouse, struggling to lace their battle robes or find their wand holsters. Their chain of command was open to interpretation at best, nonexistent at worst, and so witches and wizards shouted orders at each other over the blaring alarm wards, trying to somehow organise themselves. Minerva was already there (she had been working a night shift), and she fell on them promptly upon their arrival, arms heaped full of green strips of fabric.

"What are you doing?" Tom asked as the witch came closer, tying a strip of fabric around each wizard's left bicep, over their battle robes. Were the situation different, Hadrian would have laughed at the quelling glare she sent Tom, exasperated.

"Identification, you dolt. Last time I checked, we didn't have colour-coordinated robes." she huffed, tucking a stray strand of brown hair behind her ear. " _Someone_ has to make sure we don't accidentally curse each other."

After that, everything moved far too quickly.

Hadrian had time for only a brief preparatory speech before they were off, Apparating directly into the fray.

Hogsmeade was a melee of complete disorder and confusion. The first thing Hadrian noticed was that the Aurors were significantly outnumbered; the purple robes of Grindelwald's men seemed to swarm through the streets as wizards in blue Auror uniforms lay crumpled on the ground. Hadrian threw himself into battle with the urgency of a man who knows that the odds are irrefutably against him. He aimed to incapacitate, not to kill, but as a killing curse whizzed past his right ear, Hadrian cursed and fired a  _Reducto_ in the direction of his assailant's chest, and proceeded to abandon his disarming spells.

By the time he called for a retreat, Hadrian's robes were spattered with blood.

Defeat tasted bitter on his tongue. As he and Minerva limped back to Headquarters, both wounded and carrying a dead man between them, Hadrian's heart beat heavy in his chest. Their losses were substantial: of the forty-six who had gone into battle, eleven were dead and nineteen injured—four of them substantially enough that they couldn't be expected to see another battlefield for quite some time, if ever.

 

~.~

Four days after Grindelwald's invasion, Dumbledore accosted Hadrian as he quit the Great Hall after breakfast.

"Mr. Pearce," he caught the vampire's attention, forcing him to turn in order to acknowledge the other wizard. He didn't speak more loudly than usual, but something in his voice made Hadrian's blood run cold.

"Y—yes, Professor?"

"I was wondering if you and I might have a private word in my office, if you aren't otherwise occupied."

Hadrian didn't have to feign nerves—he had no excuse with which to escape the situation. Tom was at a Slug Club party, and even if he weren't it would hardly have made much of a difference; ostensibly, 'Julian' would have no reason to avoid conversation with Albus Dumbledore, the man who had saved him from the much loathed Head Boy.

"Of—of course, Professor."

Hadrian thought that the walk to the Transfiguration classroom was uncharacteristically silent, considering the fact that he was walking with Dumbledore. Usually the man would have prattled on mindlessly, tried to lull 'Julian' into a (false) sense of security. Now he only watched, his icy eyes boring into the side of Hadrian's head as the vampire shuffled and sniffled and tried desperately to retrace his steps, to ascertain exactly what had changed the old man's perception of him. He hadn't had class with the man in over a week, so that couldn't be it. Had he accidentally touched him passing by in the corridors? Hadrian thought it unlikely—if Dumbledore had been in close enough contact with him to feel his magic, he would have remembered it.

They came at last to the Transfiguration classroom, and Hadrian swallowed. He felt as though he were walking the plank, blindfolded, uncertain of the monsters which lurked in the murky waters below him.

Dumbledore sat behind his desk, still staring, and Hadrian politely declined his proffered tea and lemon drop, and sat awkwardly, back hunched, at the edge of his seat. The silence wore on for a seemingly interminable amount of time, Hadrian fidgeting nervously and Dumbledore staring at him intently until, at long last, he spoke.

"Hadrian Peverell,"

The words hung in the air like lead, and Hadrian couldn't breath, couldn't think. His training kicked in, and when the vampire came back to himself, he'd leapt from his seat. His holly wand was pointed, steady like his heartbeat wasn't, at Dumbledore's heart. No words came to his lips.

"You can put your wand down, Mr. Peverell. You've nothing to fear from me at the moment."

"At the moment?"

"I'll make no move against you while we are within the walls of Hogwarts. It goes against my principles. The only thing you have to fear from me is, perhaps, disillusionment."

Hadrian fought the urge to swallow. He was entirely out of his depth—the man knew his name, but did he know his significance? Did he know that Hadrian was, in fact, the elusive leader of the Resistance? What about his vampirism, his connection to the Dark Lord? He couldn't afford to abscond from Hogwarts, not now that the Resistance was based so close and in such need of him.  _No_ , Hadrian resolved, gathering his mettle close to his heart,  _I'll have to face this directly_.

Slowly, deliberately, he lowered his wand and his glamour.

"How do you know my name?" Hadrian's voice didn't waver, and he thanked Merlin for small mercies.

"How I've discerned your true identity is of no import in comparison to the state of our country."

"And what state is that?"

"It will be a state of war, if the Dark Lord continues as he is." Hadrian blinked. Was Dumbledore suggesting an alliance?

"Are you suggesting an alliance?" he voiced his thoughts. Dumbledore seemed to grow older before his eyes. When he spoke, his voice has lost all vestiges of geniality.

"No. Alliances between the Light and Dark are doomed to fail. I simply feel that it is my duty to do what I can to stop you from pursuing your apparent course of action. You are young, Hadrian, and it isn't yet too late for you."

Hadrian bristled at the familiar address. "What are you implying?"

"Only that I see much of myself in you, and that I too made regrettable decisions when I was your age—the summer after my seventh year, I became acquainted with a young wizard named Gellert. I would hazard a guess that the relationship we shared was not unlike the one you share with a certain Tom Riddle."

Hadrian's mouth was dry. He licked his lips—Dumbledore didn't—couldn't—know about he and Tom, could he? And even if he did, he couldn't possibly mean to say…

"I thought I loved him," the Professor's blue eyes were hard, but in their depths Hadrian could fid no untruth.

The irony of the situation didn't fail to impress itself upon Hadrian. He laughed, but the sound was empty, hollow.

"Not that I don't appreciate this little heart to heart, but I fail to see how this applies to our country's 'state of war.'"

The old man sighed. "You are not so far gone that you cannot be rehabilitated, Hadrian. Dark magic corrupts, but there is still good in you—you are merely misguided. I fear that if you continue your association with Mr. Riddle, you may become irretrievable. There is Darkness in that boy that you can't hope to escape; he is  _deranged—"_

"Don't you dare speak of him as such," he spat. Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, disappointment darkening the blue behind his half-moon spectacles. "I've no interest in 'rehabilitation,' thank you very much. It's precisely this sort of bigotry that makes my role in this war necessary; if it were left up to you, Dark magic would be qualified as an illness, and I can't allow that."

In the dim light of the Transfiguration professor's office, Dumbledore looked positively ancient, his auburn beard bleached white by the candlelight and his wrinkles thrown into sharp relief.

"You are a fool, Hadrian Peverell. The world does not change because one man allows it to do so—certain things are simply inevitable. Gellert, like you, has always failed to come to terms with inevitability. I fear that the two of you might be more similar than I had previously thought."

Hadrian stiffened. He wasn't like Grindlewald. He  _wasn't._

"And you believe Grindlewald's downfall to be inevitable," It was more of a statement than a question, but Dumbledore replied irregardless.

"I believe his downfall to be nearly as inevitable as yours, at his hand." Hadrian swallowed, braced himself.

"The prospect of death doesn't frighten me. I'm willing to die for my cause."

Dumbledore leaned forward, his fingers steepled before his face, sadness like bruises in his eyes.

"It might not be so simple as death, I'm afraid. Gellert—" here he paused, a faraway look in his eyes. He rose from his seat absently, moving to stand before one of the room's windows. Outside, snowflakes pattered against the glass before slipping away into velvety black oblivion. When the man continued, Dumbledore's voice was softer. "Gellert is a unique individual. He is rarely content to simply dispose of his enemies—he obliterates them. He likes to destroy their most prized possessions before he finally eliminates them. Make them suffer." the faraway look was gone from Dumbledore's eyes, replaced with something hard and forbidding. Hadrian wondered what Grindelwald had taken from him.

"Are you willing to sacrifice what you treasure most?"


	21. Deficiency

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Firstly, I have to say that I'm not happy with this chapter. Hadrian's horribly out of character, and it's overall just sort of...well, horrible. In the future I will hopefully revise it so that it resembles something remotely intelligent, but presently I am simply too busy, and I think that shows in my writing.
> 
> IMPORTANT: THIS STORY IS AS OF NOW ON HIATUS. I will be living abroad for the next eight months without a laptop, so it is unlikely that I will be able to update. This story is not abandoned. You can expect updates again beginning in July 2014.

 

**Deficiency**

.

~.~

.

" _To fall in love is to create a religion that has a fallible god."_  


~ Jorge Luis Borges

.

~.~

.

" _But I didn't understand then. That I could hurt somebody so badly she would never recover. That a person can, just by living, damage another human being beyond repair."_  


~Haruki Murakami

.

~.~

.

Hadrian had never thought himself a masochist.

He took no pleasure in pain, neither others' nor his own. Instead he relished the texture of vellum beneath his quill, of parchment pages between his fingers as words seeped into the caverns of his imagination. He lived for idle mornings spent reading before the fire and quiet evenings passed across a chessboard from Tom. He cherished the rain, the leaves that changed so subtly with the seasons, and ivory keys, home beneath his hands.

Hadrian Peverell was no masochist; his own pain brought him no joy.

And yet something about Tom Riddle forced him to reconsider. And perhaps all the worrying was for naught, perhaps Hadrian was simply a pedant amusing himself with one-sided debates on semantics.

But perhaps not.

For when Tom smiled at him, with his artfully quirked lips and emotion that didn't quite reach his wine-dark eyes, his smiles sank deep into Hadrian, through the orbs of his eyes and into his innermost depths, and behind his pupils they mutated, evolved into something sinister and unspeakable. Something that tasted of honey but cut like obsidian, that roiled and contorted in the pit of his stomach. And that something chipped away at him, bit by bit, not destroying him, exactly, but indubitably diminishing him so that every time his lips met Tom's, there was something quiet left behind. Like sediment in a bottle of wine.

And sometimes, more often as the weeks wore on, the smiles were genuine. Sometimes they were unconscious and unaffected; secret smiles for Hadrian and Hadrian alone. Sometimes the smiles weren't meant to hurt, weren't intendedto manipulate or pacify or belittle or  _anything,_ but were instead involuntary, artless reactions to words softly spoken or the barest of touches.

Those smiles were the most painful; for their innocence, they cut all the deeper.

No, Hadrian was no masochist. But perhaps, for Tom, he could become one.

.

~.~

.

Everything went to shit on a Tuesday.

It was snowing when they Apparated into the shadows of Knockturn Alley, coins burning hot in their pockets and robes pulled tight about them to ward away the late January frigidity. Several of their ranks slipped as they appeared, the icy cobblestone providing little purchase for the soles of their duelling boots, and Tom wavered, unsteady on his feet, until Hadrian's gloved fingers curled around his arm, steadying him. The half-blood laid his hand atop his Horcrux's briefly in gratitude, turning to press a ghost of a kiss against his neck—it was dark here, in the shadows of the alley—but wasted no time hurrying down the narrow street and toward the shouting he could hear, carried by the wind, from Diagon Alley.

Already, adrenaline pumped in his veins. For Tom, the moments preceding battle were heady, thick with anticipation.

Grindelwald was attacking (and, if the number of fallen men in the blue of the Aurors was any indication, the Dark Lord was winning). The snow fell thickly, not so much in flakes as in clumps, and Tom had to squint as he burst into the foray. The street appeared a blur of purple as Grindelwald's men swarmed, overcoming the Aurors and, all too soon, the Resistance. Within minutes, many of the green-adorned Resistance soldiers had joined the Aurors on the ground.

A frenzied grin unfurled on Tom's lips, and he whirled through the battlefield, disarming and dismembering in equal measure. Long gone were the days when his skill had come solely from books; Tom Riddle was a seasoned soldier, now, a man of war.

It seemed to Tom that Grindelwald's army was a hydra; for every purple-robed wizard that fell, two appeared to take his place. And yet despite the army's apparent immeasurability, as Tom forced his way through the melee, he left in his wake an effective stream of incapacitated (by bonds, bodily harm, or (more often) death) enemy soldiers.

Hadrian was duelling too, of course, several yards away. Tom wasn't watching him per se—his attention was focused on his opponents, but he could feel the vampire, sense him at the edge of his mind and of his soul. And watching Hadrian duel was intoxicating. His wonted grace was sharper in battle, honed to a sanguinary point that sliced and choked and jabbed and killed, and Tom revelled in it, revelled in that it was all  _his_.

As the battle wore on, the two wizards drew closer together until finally they stood duelling back to back, an unbeatable duo from whom Grindelwald's men seemed to shrink like Gryffindors from subtlety.

Tom fought alone. He had always fought alone, and yet somehow Hadrian's presence behind him was neither cumbersome nor irritating, but instead heartening and invigorating. They worked so well together, and Tom reflected that perhaps he had been wrong all these years, to shun company and help, but no. Hadrian was simply different. No other could complement Tom so honestly, and perhaps it was due to their shared soul that Hadrian could sense his attacks and his defensive strategies. He was, thought the half-blood, a good man to have as an ally.

The Slytherin heir dispelled an incoming  _Cruciatus_ with a parseltongue shield, one of the few he had to speak. Behind him, he felt Hadrian tense, and it was only then that he remembered the effect which the language of snakes had on other Speakers.

"Careful, Hadrian!" he yelled over the din of the clash, "You mustn't let me distract you, however alluring I might be. Had I known that curses got you all hot and bothered, I would've been sure to use them more often in bed!"

The remark earned him an elbow to the ribs. Tom smirked, feral, and in his euphoria didn't see the sickly green spell arcing toward him until it was too late.

"Fuck, Tom! Look out!" Hadrian's voice seemed distant as time seemed to slow, and Tom stood still, frozen, his laughter frozen in his lungs, the ghost of his smirk still etched on his face. He knew, logically, that he wasn't fast enough to dodge the killing curse. He knew that he didn't have time to summon something to deflect it.

He knew that he probably deserved this, somehow. Perhaps this was the world's way of effecting balance. Maybe Tom had killed too many people to go on living.

Apparently, Hadrian disagreed.

It was easy to forget that his Horcrux wasn't human, sometimes. Sometimes he seemed so small, fragile almost, but as Hadrian pushed him to the ground, he did so with enough force to crack at least one of Tom's ribs, and the half-blood was forced to remember the extent of Hadrian's strength. Tom didn't feel the pain, though.

Or maybe he did. Later, he would tell himself that the pain he felt deep within his chest was due to his broken bones. Later, he would wonder if he might have punctured a lung, such was the extent of his pain. Later, Tom would loath himself for his stupidity, in more ways than one.

It was anticlimactic, almost, how the vampire crumpled when the spell impacted his chest. It seemed such a small reward for his heroic actions, and as he fell to the ground, Tom thought that maybe if the vampire had screamed he would have forgiven him. Maybe if he acted as though dying for Tom was a burden, as though he hated death, Tom wouldn't have cracked.

Because it had been instinctual, almost, how Hadrian moved to save him; it had been altruism at its purist, and all the more vile for it.

Because Tom wasn't worth it.

The half-blood raised himself from the ground on shaking arms, the sounds of the battlefield blurring around him. All he could hear was his anger, hot and red, pulsing in his veins and burning him alive. He crawled, trembling, toward Hadrian's body and, looping a bloodied hand around the vampire's bicep, Apparated out of the melee and into a neighbouring alleyway. The Apparation unbalanced him as it always did, and without Hadrian there to steady him, Tom collapsed to the cold cobblestone.

Beside him, Hadrian groaned. Tom scrambled to his feet, coughing up blood. The vampire lay sprawled across the ground, his green eyes half-lidded with exhaustion and evidently weak but also evidently  _alive._

"You're alive," Tom stated, and to his horror his voice cracked. He swallowed.

"'Course I am," Hadrian slurred. "'M a vampire, 'member? It'll take more'n a little  _Avada Kedavra_ t' off me."

At his sides, Tom's fists clenched. His fingernails carved small lunulae into the flesh of his palms.

"I thought you were dead."

The vampire seemed to sober quickly enough at the remark.

"I did too, for a minute."

Tom  _burned._  All at once he found himself standing above Hadrian's prone form, glaring. "You're not allowed to do that."

Hadrian chuckled, and Tom's anger turned to rage. Couldn't he  _see_? Couldn't he understand that Tom wasn't worth his sacrifice, that Hadrian's life was worth more than any one man's? Couldn't he see that no one should care that much for Tom? He was a freak, damn it, and  _he didn't deserve this!_

"To do what, save your sorry arse?"

"To do so at your own expense." Now, Tom's voice cracked with something different entirely. Hadrian's brows drew together, as if he couldn't discern the source of Tom's ire. "You really don't understand, do you?"

Hadrian clambered to his feet, dusting off his robes. It was an inefficacious gesture, for blood had soaked through the fabric in several places. "No, Tom, I don't. Usually, when someone saves your life, the proper response is 'thank you,' but apparently when  _I_ save  _your_ life, it's as though I've committed some horrid offence."

Tom turned away, pulling at his hair. Hadrian's eyes had been so cold, he'd been so still, and Tom couldn't—he couldn't—

"I can't lose you!"

Silence rang in the wake of his outburst, and Tom refused to meet Hadrian's eyes. "It's just that—if you died for me, I would never be able to forgive myself. You're—more important to me than you know."

But Hadrian's eyes had narrowed. "I'm not your possession, Tom. I'm a person, with a free will, and if I want to save your life then you can't stop me!"

How could the vampire be this dense? Tom very nearly growled.

"I can bloody well try!" he retorted, and knew instantly that it was the wrong thing to say. Hadrian's cheeks flushed with anger, his nostrils flared, and Tom didn't give a damn, because Hadrian had to understand his worth. Tom would  _make_ him understand.

"Why do you care so much anyway? I know you're cold, Tom, but I think I've earned the right to be treated like a fucking  _person_. What am I to you? Am I your fuckbuddy? Your plaything? Your  _toy?_ "

"You're my bloody  _Horcrux!"_

The air seemed to grow exponentially colder as neither of them so much as breathed. Hadrian had wilted, the fight gone out of him, and Tom could practically see his brilliant mind working, see him putting the pieces together.

"Your Horcrux." his voice was distant, cold, and Tom felt it like a knife between his already throbbing ribs. "All this time I thought—but it doesn't matter what I thought. Your Horcrux," he muttered to himself, and Tom reached out to take his hand, to tell the vampire that no, that wasn't right, he was  _so much more than his Horcrux,_ but Hadrian flinched back from his touch, eyes flinty.

"Don't presume to touch me,  _Riddle_ ," and the sound of his surname hissed so spitefully by the voice he loved was a slap in Tom's face. "I can't believe the extent of my own stupidity.  _I gave you—"_

"Hadrian—"

"No. Don't lie to me, Tom." and the vampire's voice sounded so damn  _broken_ that for a moment Tom wished himself dead. "I don't have time for your lies, not anymore."

And then Tom was standing alone in the alleyway, fingers blue with cold, as the sounds of battle echoed in the distance.

Inside his mind, all was silent.

.

~.~

.

Bayard was alone in the flat when he heard the sound of knocking. Marius was out somewhere, no doubt amusing himself in one of the Muggle libraries, and so Bayard was making stew.

The problem with living with his cousin was that he never knew how many to cook for, because as often as not, the Moroccan man didn't return to the flat at night at all. It wasn't that he was sleeping around—actually, Bayard suspected that Marius was ignorant of most such carnal matters. No, Marius simply had a tendency to lose track of time, and would sometimes end up wandering the streets of Paris until the wee hours of the morning.

When he  _was_ around for dinner, they both ate well. Marius was by far the superior cook of the two, and he'd memorised the recipes for many traditional Moroccan dishes that Bayard had come to adore. Sometimes his cousin returned with baskets of groceries so full that he couldn't even open the door without the aid of his wand.

Still, it was strange for him to knock.

Bayard placed a lid on the stew, and hurried to the door. He dismantled the wards absently, the motions made quick with habit. And yet when he opened the bright red door (Bayard had insisted that a red front door would bring them prosperity, or some such rot, but Bayard had been happy enough to facilitate his cousin's idiosyncrasies), he was greeted not by his cousin but by a rather bedraggled Hadrian Peverell.

He appeared to have arrived on foot, expensive leather shoes splattered with mud, and Bayard could see it in his mind: Hadrian, hurrying down the rain-washed Parisian streets, hands sunken deep into woollen pockets and shoes clacking like a broken metronome against the wet cobblestone. The rain had washed his colours out, leaving him quite pale. Beneath his soiled battle robes, his shirt was drenched, sticking to his skin in lean strokes of translucent white, the barest whisper of pallid skin beneath. Bayard hated himself a little, for staring. But the most pathetic thing about Hadrian's appearance wasn't the state of his habiliments; by far, the most disconcerting aspect was the dead, beaten, bruised quality of his usually vital eyes.

"What happened,  _mon cher?"_ Bayard asked, ushering the other wizard inside. He had known Hadrian since the boy was seven, and never had he seen him look quite so desolate. Even when Carina died, Hadrian had put forth a strong, unaffected front. Now, he looked like a veritable corpse. Bayard gestured him to the settee, sitting down beside him and wrapping an arm around him. The boy was stiff, at first, but slowly relaxed into his embrace, burying his face in Bayard's chest and grasping the fabric of his robes. "What's wrong, Hadrian?"

The younger wizard was trembling slightly, whether with cold or with distress Bayard couldn't discern, and when he spoke, his voice shook a little. "You were right."

Dread settled in the frenchman's gut as he tried to recall what the boy was referring to. "About what?"

"About Tom Riddle," he said.

Bayard squeezed his eyes shut, and maybe once he would have felt vindicated by his prediction, but now, with Hadrian in his arms in such a state, the wizard felt no satisfaction.

He pressed a kiss to the top of the younger wizard's head, and swore that Tom Riddle would suffer.

.

~.~

.

_How is it possible to find order in memory?_  Hadrian wondered as he stared out into the flat, dull grey of the Parisian sky, leaning silently against the window frame. It would be logical to begin at the beginning, methodically, like a pianist playing a concerto. And yet there were a thousand places to start, for there were a thousand memories of Tom Riddle.

Hadrian fingered the tender, pink skin of his left wrist that had, for so long, glistered silver. No longer; now his bracelet decorated another's wrist, where it would remain forevermore. There it would lie, indestructible in a way that Hadrian's heart was not, an eternal reminder of his devotion to one who had manipulated him, used him, broken him.

_People break too easily,_  he thought.  _So do hearts, and dreams._

After all, this was no concerto. And Hadrian had never been good at following the music anyway; at some point, playing the piano had become playing for Tom, and now he found that he couldn't separate the two completely.

And he wasn't a pianist, not anymore.

No, no one memory was a better place to begin than any other—for perhaps it had started when Tom gave him the Hallow, but no, it had to have been before that—the first time they made love. No, that wasn't it either. It must have started that day in the Three Broomsticks. Or perhaps it was even earlier: the first time they met, at the Gathering. But that still wasn't the beginning, was it?

Perhaps they had been doomed the day two Parselmouths were sorted into Slytherin.

Hadrian leaned his forehead against the cold glass of the window, relished the numbness begat by the chill of the glass pane against the lightening bolt which marred his skin and his soul. He wished the ache in his chest could be so easily anaesthetised. It was his fault, really. He had known that he wouldn't come out of this unscathed, that Tom was dangerous in more ways than his magic. But knowing hadn't stopped him, had it? He had plunged in head first, even if he didn't know it at the time.

With Tom, the world turned too fast, burned too bright, and Hadrian was coming to realise that he had been damned since—well, he had been damned since the beginning.

Hadrian watched as his breath fogged the glass, blurred the blinking lights of the city outside. Dusk was falling, and so was rain; fat drops trickled down the windowpanes, leaving in their wake wet trails like the paths tears leave on the cheeks of the miserable.

Thunder rolled in the distance.

Hadrian didn't regret a moment.


End file.
